LIBRARY 

DIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


,-p 

PRISMATICS 


BY 


RICHARD     HAYWARDE 


Illustrated 

WITH  WOOD  ENGEAVINGS  FROM  DESIGNS  BY 
ELLIOTT    DARLEY    KENSETT    HICKS    AND    ROSSITER 


"  And  if  it  be  a  mistake,  it  is  only  so;  there  is  no  heresy 

in  such  harmless  aberrations." 

JOSEPH   GRANVILJ,E. 


SECOND  EDITION 


NEW    YORK 

D  APPLETON    &    COMPANY    200    BROADWAY 
AND  1G  LITTLE  BRITAIN  LONDON 

MDCCCLIV 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNU 
DAVIS 

LIBRARY 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1853,  by 
D.  APPLETON  &   COMPANY, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


TO 


MY    BROTHER     DAVENPORT. 


is  look 


AFFECTIONATELY       INSCRIBED, 


PREFACE. 


A  PREFACE  is  a  happy  medium  between  the  author  and  the  public. 
It  is  usually  apologetic  too,  and  therefore  modest — like  a  veil ;  I  will 
not  say  how  transparent. 

GENTLE  READER, — 

I  do  not  pretend  to  exhibit  truth,  clear  and  pellucid,  but 
rather,  as  the  title  indicates,  tinctured  with  imperfections. 

Life  is  many-hued, — 

"  Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-colored  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity." 

The  purest  are  not  immaculate ;  the  impure,  though  double- 
dyed  with  guilt,  have  some  tinge  of  humanity — some  obscured  indi 
cation  of  divine  origin ;  we  are  all  more  or  less  prismatic. 

If  there  be  one  earnest,  honest  purpose  beneath  the  strata  of 


6  PREFACE. 

superficial  society  in  this  country,  it  is  the  desire  to  ameliorate  the 
condition  of  two  classes — the  rich  and  the  poor.  Perhaps  the 
reader  will  discover  some  hints  tending  toward  this  vital  subject,  in 
the  volume  before  him.  If  so  I  am  rewarded.  What  if  I  fail  ? 
Other  minds,  more  comprehensive,  will  succeed. 

Servile  prejudices,  political  and  conventional,  are  gaining  ground 
in  our  larger  cities.  Young  America  does  not  promise  to  represent 
the  noble  estate  purchased  for  him  by  the  blood  of  the  Revolution. 
Instead  of  that  sense  of  independence  which  befits  the  spirit  of  his 
age  and  race ;  instead  of  cultivating  what  is  manly  and  dignified  ; 
instead  of  making  himself  familiar  with  letters  and  the  arts ;  and 
the  political  history  of  this,  the  greatest  of  republics ;  he  is  daily 
becoming  more  emasculate ;  less  fitted  to  bear  a  part  either  as  citi 
zen,  merchant,  or  legislator. 

This  is  not  said  or  meant  unkindly ;  it  is  not  a  satire  levelled  at 
a  particular  class ;  the  subject  is  too  serious ;  at  once  too  high, 
and  too  low  for  ridicule.  But  is  it  not  true  ?  Is  there  not 
something  better  worth  the  attention  of  young  men  about  town 
than  acquiring  a  taste  for  petty  bijouteries ;  extravagance,  and  the 
means  of  gratifying  it  ;  parading,  like  lackeys  in  the  cast-off  habits 
of  men  of  fashion,  gaining  from  the  society  of  the  gentler  sex  not 
even  the  forms  of  polite  courtesy,  and  indulging  in  a  vocabulary  of 
slang  phrases,  which  indicate  any  thing  but  the  man  of  refinement, 
of  education;  in  fact,  the  gentleman? 

As  to  the  other  class,  for  whom,  happily  here,  the  portals  of  uni 
versal  education  stand  wide  open,  there  is  greater  hope ;  thank 


PREFACE.  7 

Heaven,  among  these  exists  a  spirit  more  national ;  loftier  in  its  as 
pirations,  than  that  which  obtains  among  their  denationalized  co- 
temporaries.  I  will  endeavour  to  illustrate  with 

a  /HUB. 

A  diamond  fell  among  the  grass,  and  when  the  morning  came, 
behold  !  around  it  innumerable  dew-drops,  sparkling  with  iridescent 
light.  Then  scornfully  it  spake,  being  touched  with  envy,  and  said, 
"  Vainly  ye  glitter  and  please  the  eye  of  the  beholder,  while  I  lie 
here  unnoticed ;  a  brief  hour,  and  ye  will  vanish  from  the  earth, 
but  ages  shall  roll  over  me  without  diminishing  my  lustre."  Then 
a  low  voice  arose  from  the  starry  multitude :  "  Unhappy  one !  ad 
mired  as  thou  art,  wouldst  thou  still  disparage  the  lowly  and  the 
unoffending  ?  Dost  thou  not  grace  the  crown  of  the  monarch  and 
stud  the  sceptre  of  empire  ?  Dost  thou  not  encircle  the  white  arms 
of  queens,  and  repose  upon  the  bosom  of  haughty  loveliness  ?  Yet, 
not  content  with  thy  lofty  station,  thou  desirest  to  show  thy  contempt 
of  those  who  have  injured  not  thee.  Know  then,  since  thou  hast 
sought  it,  the  difference  between  us.  Thou  art  brought  forth 
with  stripes  and  the  unrequited  labor  of  the  slave  ;  we  descend  from 
heaven  that  the  children  of  men  may  have  respite  and  sustenance. 
Thou  art  the  minister  of  crime,  of  cruel  war,  and  oppression  ;  but 
prosperity  and  peace  are  the  followers  of  our  footsteps.  Where 
thou  art  is  pride,  envy,  and  covetousness.  Where  we  are,  the  voice 
of  thankfulness  arises  from  universal  nature.  Whether  in  the  mine 


8  PREFACE. 

or  in  the  casket  tliou  art  of  the  earth ;  but  we  dwell  in  the  glorious 
pavilion  of  the  sun,  and  build  the  tinted  arch  of  the  rainbow." 

Then  the  breath  of  the  morning  came,  and  the  dew-drops  were 
exhaled  to  heaven,  but  the  share  of  the  peasant  turned  the  clods 
upon  the  diamond,  and  he  trod  it  under  foot,  and  passed  on. 

So  much  for  the  pervading  hue  of  prismatics ;  there  are  others 
less  evident ;  some  of  which  let  me  explain. 

Americans  are  said  to  be  the  most  thin-skinned  people  in  the 
world  :  by  way  of  a  test,  the  articles  on  the  habits  of  Irishmen  and 
Scotchmen  were  written.  I  hope  the  motive  will  not  be  misunder 
stood  ;  I  could  not  afford  to  lose  one  of  the  many  I  claim  a* 
friends  who  represent  either  nation,  by  any  ill-timed  levity,  that 
might  be  misinterpreted.  But  if  by  chance  I  do  manage  to  ex 
cite  a  little  of  that  feeling  in  others  which  is  said  to  be  peculiar  to 
my  own  countrymen,  I  may,  emboldened  by  success,  publish  a  geo 
graphy,  with  the  habits  of  Englishmen,  Frenchmen,  etc.,  enriched 
with  illustrations. 

I  was  informed,  some  years  after  the  story  of  the  "  Last  Picture  " 
had  been  published  in  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine,  that  it,  or  some 
thing  like  it,  was  to  be  found  in  "  The  Disowned,"  by  Bulwer,  a 
novel  I  have  never  read.  Still  I  concluded  to  republish  it,  as  it  was 
told  me,  by  an  old  lady,  when  I  was  a  boy.  She  came  from  Cum 
berland,  in  the  north  of  England ;  she  had  seen  the  picture  and 
there  is  no  doubt  of  the  story  being  authentic. 

I  would  be  wanting  in  gratitude  if  I  neglected  to  acknowledge 


PREFACE.  9 

my  obligations  to  those  artists,  my  friends,  who  have  so  beautifully 
illustrated  this  volume.  It  was  a  voluntary  offer  on  their  part ;  but 
for  their  suggestions  it  might,  perhaps,  never  have  been  printed. 

In  conclusion,  I  trust,  these  essays,  which  have  afforded  me  so 
much  enjoyment  and  employment  in  long  winter  evenings,  when 
other  duties  were  finished,  will  not  be  entirely  disregarded  ;  not  for 
my  sake,  but  for  the  sake  of  all  who  feel,  and  all  who  need  sym 
pathy. 

CHESTNUT  COTTAGE,  March  5,  1853. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  LAST  PICTURE,            .            .            »           .            .  .13 

THE  BEATING  OF  THE  HEART,              ....  21 

AUNT  MIRANDA,     .            .            .            .            .            .  .25 

HETABEL,          .......  53 

ORANGE  BLOSSOMS,            .            .            .            .            .  .57 

BUNKER  HILL  :  AN  OLD-TIME  BALLAD,           ...  89 

A  CHRONICLE  OF  THE  VILLAGE  OF  BABYLON,      .            .  .95 
THE  SEASONS,  .            .            .            .            .            .            .117 

OLD  BOOKS,            .            .            .            .            .            .  .121 

A  BABYLONISH  DITTY,     ......  133 

THE  FIRST  OYSTER-EATER,             .             .            .            .  .137 

AN  EVENING  RE  VERY,  .  .  •  .  .147 

ON  THE  HABITS  OF  IRISHMEN,       .            .            .            .  .151 

LA  BELLA  ENTRISTECIDA,        .            .            .            .            .  157 

ON  THE  HABITS  OF  SCOTCHMEN,    .            .            .            .  .161 


12  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  LOCKET:  AX  ANCIENT  BALLAD,         .  .  .  .171 

Ox  SOCIETIES  FOR  AMELIORATING  THE  CONDITION  OF  THE  Kicn,     175 
WHERE  is  THE  HOLY  TEMPLE?  .  .  .  .183 

ALLITERATION,        .  .  .  .  .  .  .185 

ALBUM  VERSES,  ......          197 

THE  LAY-FIGURE,  .  .  .  .  .  .201 

To  , 205 

MY  BOY  ix  THE  COUNTRY,  .....     207 

A  SONNET,        .  208 

WIT  AND  HUMOR,  .....    209 


THE    LAST    PICTURE. 

"  The  spider's  most  attenuated  thread 
Is  cord,  is  cable,  when  compared  with  that 
On  which,  at  times,  man's  destiny  depends." 

loveliest  thing  in  life,"  says  a  gifted  author,  "is 
the  mind  of  a  young  child."  The  most  sensitive 
thing,  he  might  have  added,  is  the  heart  of  a  young- 
artist.  Hiding  in  his  bosom  a  veiled  and  unspeakable 
beauty,  the  inspired  Neophyte  shrinks  from  contact  with 
the  actual,  to  lose  himself  in  delicious  reveries  of  an  ideal 
world.  In  those  enchanted  regions,  the  great  and  power 
ful  of  the  earth  ;  the  warrior-statesmen  of  the  Elizabethan 
era  ;  the  steel-clad  warriors  of  the  mediaeval  ages  ;  gorgeous 
cathedrals,  and  the  luxuriant  pomp  of  prelates,  who  had 
princes  for  their  vassals  ;  courts  of  fabled  and  forgotten 
kings  ;  and  in  the  deepening  gloom  of  antiquity,  the  nude 


14  THE    LAST    PICTURE. 

Briton  and  the  painted  Pict  pass  before  his  enraptured 
eyes.  Women,  beautiful  creations  !  warm  with  breathing 
life,  yet  spiritual  as  angels,  hover  around  him  ;  Elysian 
landscapes  are  in  the  distance  ;  but  ever  arresting  his 
steps, — cold  and  spectral  in  his  path, — stretches  forth  the 
rude  hand  of  Keality.  Is  it  surprising  that  the  petty 
miseries  of  life  weigh  down  his  spirit  ?  .  Yet  the  trembling 
magnet  does  not  seek  the  north  with  more  unerring  fidelity 
than  that  "soft  sentient  thing,"  the  artist's  heart,  still 
directs  itself  amid  every  calamity,  and  in  every  situation,  to 
wards  its  cynosure — perfection  of  the  beautiful.  The  law 
which  guides  the  planets  attracts  the  one  ;  the  other  is 
influenced  by  the  Divine  mystery  which  called  the  universe 
itself  into  being  ;  that  sole  attribute  of  genius — creation. 
Few  artists  escape  those  minor  evils  which  are  almost 
a  necessary  consequence  in  an  exquisitely  sympathetic  or 
ganization.  Fortunately,  these  are  but  transient,  often 
requisite,  bringing  forth  hidden  faculties  and  deeper  feel 
ings,  which  else  might  have  lain  dormant.  But  iterated 
disappointments  will  wear  even  into  a  soul  of  iron  ;  sadlj* 
I  write  it,  there  have  been  such  instances;  but  a  few  years 
have  elapsed  since  the  death  of  the  lamented  Haydon  ; 
and  later,  one  nearer  and  dearer,  this  side  the  Atlantic, 
was  called  to  an  untimely  grave. 


THE    LAST    PICTURE.  15 

Not  less  true  and  touching  is  the  tale  I  have  to  tell, 
although  it  relates  to  an  earlier  period  ; — 

"• its  only  charm,  in  sooth, 

If  any,  will  be  sad  and  simple  truth." 

In  one  of  those  little  villages  in  the  north  of  England 
which  still  preserve  the  antiquated  customs  and  pastimes 
of  past  times,  there  lived,  about  a  century  ago,  a  young- 
artist  by  the  name  of  Stanfield.  A  small  freehold  estate 
barely  sufficed  to  support  himself  and  his  aged  grandmo 
ther.  They  resided  in  a  cottage  entirely  by  themselves, 
and  as  he  was  an  orphan  and  an  only  child,  I  need  not  say 
how  dear  he  was  to  that  poor  old  heart.  The  border  bal 
lads  she  would  sit  crooning  to  him  long  winter  nights  had 
been  as  eloquent  to  him  as  a  mythology,  and  many  a 
"  Douglass  and  Percie," — many  an  exploit  of  "  Jonnie  Arm 
strong,"  "  Laidlaw,"  and  "  Elliott/'  adorned  the  walls  of  the 
cottage,  depicted,  it  is  true,  with  rude  materials  and  imple 
ments,  but  sufficiently  striking  to  excite  the  admiration 
of  the  villagers,  who  wondered,  not  so  much  at  the  man 
ner  in  which  the  sketches  were  executed,  as  at  the  fact 
that  such  things  could  be  done  at  all.  A  beautiful  rural 
landscape  surrounded  their  home ;  and  a  view  of  the 
Solway,  the  Irish  sea,  and  the  distant  coast  of  Scotland, 


16  THE    LAST    PICTURE. 

doubtless  had  its  effect  upon  the  mind  of  the  young  painter. 
Many  were  the  gossipings,  during  his  absence  from  the 
cottage,  over  these  early  productions  of  his  pencil,  and  dear 
to  his  aged  grandmother  the  rude  praises  bestowed  upon 
them  by  her  rustic  neighbors. 

At  last  the  Squire  called  upon  him.  The  meeting  was 
delightful  to  both.  The  enthusiasm  and  innate  refinement 
of  the  young  man — the  delicate  taste,  simplicity,  and  man 
ly  benevolence  of  the  Squire,  were  mutually  attractive.  A 
commission  to  paint  a  picture  was  given  to  Stanfield,  and 
a  large  apartment  in  the  Manor  Hall  appropriated  to  his 
use.  You  may  be  sure  he  was  untiring  in  his  efforts  now. 
Koorn  to  paint — materials  to  use — studies  on  every  side — 
patronage  to  reward — happy  artist !  Nor  was  the  want 
of  sweet  companionship  felt  by  him.  At  times,  a  lovely 
face  startled  him  at  his  doorway.  Sometimes  music, 
"  both  of  instrument  and  singing,"  floated  up  the  broad 
staircase.  Sometimes  he  found  a  chance  handful  of  flow 
ers  resting  upon  his  palette.  A  golden-haired,  blue-eyed 
vision  haunted  his  dreams,  waMng  or  sleeping.  Happy, 
happy  artist  !  The  Squire  had  an  only  daughter.  Her 
name  was  Blanche.  The  picture  was  at  last  completed. 

It  happened  the  great  Sir  Joshua  Keynolds  at  this  time 
paid  the  Squire  a  visit.  Ah  !  that  young  heart  throbbed 


THE   LAST   PICTURE.  17 

then,  not  less  with  dread  than  joy.  No  doubt  it  was  a 
crude  production,  that  picture,  but  youth,  with  all  its 
misgivings,  is  full  of  hope,  and  the  young  artist,  in  spite 
of  the  wise  admonitions  of  his  patron,  insisted  upon  con 
cealing  himself  behind  the  canvas,  that  he  might  hear  the 
candid  opinion  of  the  great  painter.  It  is  scarcely  neces 
sary  to  refer  to  the  fact,  that  Sir  Joshua  was  deaf,  and  his 
voice  in  consequence,  had  that  sharpness  usual  in  persons 
so  affected.  The  expected  day  arrived.  The  Squire  and 
his  guests  stood  before  the  picture.  A  sweet  voice,  like  a 
thread  of  gold,  sometimes  mingled  with  the  praises  of  the 
rest.  At  last,  Sir  Joshua  spoke.  Stanfield  listened  intent 
ly.  He  heard  his  picture  condemned.  Still  he  listened, 
his  heart  beating  against  his  side  almost  audibly  ;  there 
might  be  some  redeeming  points  ?  Like  an  inexorable 
judge,  the  old  painter  heaped  objection  upon  objection, 
and  that  too,  in  tones,  it  seemed,  of  peculiar  asperity. 
Poor  Stanfield  felt  as  if  the  icy  hand  of  death  were  laid 
upon  his  heart,  and  then,  with  a  sickening  shudder,  fell 
senseless  upon  the  floor. 

They  raised  him, — he  recovered — was  restored  to  life  ; 
but  what  was  life  to  him  ? 

From  that  time,  he  drooped  daily.  At  last  his  kind 
patron  sent  him  to  Kome.  There,  amid  the  eternal  mon- 


18  THE   LAST    PICTURE. 

uments  of  art,  avoiding  all  companions,  immured  in  his 
little  studio,  he  busied  himself  steadily,  but  feebly,  with  a 
work  which  proved  to  be  his  last. 

It  represented  a  precipitous  cliff  to  the  brink  of  which 
a  little  child  had  crept.  One  tiny  hand  stretched  out  over 
the  abyss,  and  its  baby  face  was  turned,  with  a  smile, 
towards  its  mother,  from  whose  arms  it  had  evidently  just 
escaped.  That  playful  look  was  a  challenge  for  her  to 
advance,  and  she,  poor  mother,  with  that  deep,  dumb 
despair  in  her  face,  saw  the  heedless  innocent  just  poised 
upon  the  brink,  beyond  her  reach,  and  knew  that  if  she 
moved  towards  it  a  single  step,  it  too  would  move,  to  cer 
tain  death.  But  with  heaven-taught  instinct,  she  had 
torn  the  drapery  from  her  breast,  and  exposed  the  sweet 
fountain  of  life  to  her  infant.  Spite  of  its  peril,  you  felt 
it  would  be  saved. 

Such  was  the  picture.  Day  after  day,  when  the  artists, 
his  friends,  gathered  at  their  customary  meals,  his  poor, 
pale  face  was  seen  among  them,  listless,  without  a  smile, 
and  seemingly  wistful  of  the  end,  when  he  might  retire 
again  to  his  secluded  studio.  One  day  he  was  missing. 
The  second  came,  but  he  came  not.  The  third  arrived — 
still  absent.  A  presentiment  of  his  fate  seemed  to  have 
infused  itself  in  every  mind.  They  went  to  his  room. 


THE    LAST    PICTURE. 


19 


There,  seated  in  a  chair  before  his  unfinished  picture,  they 
found   him — dead — his  pencil  in  his  hand. 


THE  BEATING  OF  THE  HEART. 

* 

HEAKT  that  beateth,  trembleth,  yearneth  ! 
Now  with  grief  and  pain  assailed, 
Now  with  joy  triumphant  burneth 
Now  in  sorrow  veiled  ! 
Moveless  as  the  wave-worn  rock 
In  the  battle's  deadly  shock, 
When  the  surging  lines  advance 
Doom  on  every  lance  !    * 
Yet  melting  at  some  mimic  show, 
Or  plaintive  tale  of  woe. 

Faint  with  love,  of  conquest  proud, 
Seared  with  hate,  with  fury  riven, 
Like  the  fire-armed  thunder-cloud 
By  the  tempest  driven  : 
Hark  !  the  chords  triumphant  swell  ! 
Floods  on  floods  of  raptures  roll — 


22  THE  BEATING  OF  THE  HEART. 

Sudden  !  strikes  the  passing  bell, 
Life  has  reached  the  goal. 


Though  at  times,  0  Death,  I  cry, 

Ope  the  door,  thy  son  entreateth, 

Though  from  Life  I  strive  to  fly, 

Still  the  heart-clock  beateth  ! 

No,  not  yet  I  wish  for  thee, 

Gaunt  and  pale,  remorseless  King  ! 

Soon,  too  soon,  thou'lt  come  for  me 

O'er  life  triumphing. 

Glow  and  dance  in  every  vein, 

Crimson  current,  ruby  river, 

To  thy  source  return  again, 

As  the  teeming  summer  rain 

Seeks  again  the  parent  main, 

The  all-bounteous  giver : 

Beat,  dear  Heart,  against  my  breast — 

Tell  me  thou  art  there  again  : 

Life  and  thee  together  rest 

In  that  hold  of  joy  and  pain; 

Stronghold  yet  of  life  thou  art, 

Kestless,  ever-working  Heart ! 

Night  comes,  draped  in  shadows  sombre, 
Morning,  robed  in  light  appears  ! 


THE  BEATING  OF  THE  HEART.  23 

Minutes,  hours,  without  number, 
Days,  and  months,  and  years 
Pass  like  dreams  :  yet  still  thou  art 
Ever  busy,  restless  Heart  ! 

When  his  doom  the  Captive  heareth, 
How  thy  summons,  stroke  on  stroke, 
Tells  the  fatal  moment  neareth, 
Sounding  like  the  heavy  stroke 
Distant  heard  ere  falls  the  oak  ! 

How  the  maiden  fain  would  hide 
Thee  within  her  bosom  white, 
Still  against  her  tender  side 
Throbs  the  soft  delight  ! 
Every  pulse  reveals  the  flame, 
Every  fibre  softly  thrills, 
But  how  innocent  the  shame 
That  her  bosom  fills. 


In  the  Hero,  firm  as  steel, 

In  the  Virgin,  soft  as  snow  ; 

In  the  Coward,  citadel 

Where  the  recreant  blood  doth  go, 

Hiding  from  the  sight  of  foe  ; 


24  THE  BEATING  OF  THE  HEART. 

In  the  Mother's  anxious  breast. 
Who  can  picture  thy  unrest  ? 
When  her  babe  lies  low, 
With  the  fitful  fever  burning, 
No  relief — still  restless  turning 
Ever  to  and  fro  ! 

In  the  Bride  what  mixt  commotion 
When  the  words  "  Be  man  and  wife  ! " 
Thrill  her  with  that  deep  emotion, 
Known  but  once  in  life. 

Priceless  jewel !  hidden  treasure  ! 
All  the  world  to  thee  is  naught : 
Working  loom  of  ceaseless  pleasure, 
Weaving  without  stint  or  measure 
Woof  and  web  of  thought  : 
Hive  of  life  !  where  drone  and  bee 
Struggle  for  the  mastery  : 
In  thy  never-ceasing  motion, 
Like  a  great  star  in  the  ocean, 
Shines  the  Soul !  thy  heavenly  part, 
Throbbing,  life-assuring  Heart  ! 


AUNT    MIRANDA. 

~\TO  matter  what  people  might  say  of  Aunt  Miranda, 
•^  Rowley  and  I  loved  her,  not  in  spite  of,  but  because 
of  her  fine  stately  ways,  which  were  the  natural  result  of 
a  nice  feeling  of  honor,  that  suffering  had  only  rendered 
more  delicate  and  sensitive.  How  often  have  we  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her  tall,  upright  figure  in  church,  with  asperity 
written  in  sharp  lines  in  every  lineament,  lurking,  as  it 
were,  in  the  angles  of  her  stiff  black  silk  dress,  and  plait 
ing  and  pointing  the  little  frill  that  circled  her  neck,  and 
thought  how  patient,  good,  and  noble  she  really  was,  how 
much  better  at  heart  than  many  around  her,  who  were 
considered  kinder  and  more  amiable,  because  they  could 
assume  the  thin,  specious  gloss  of  conventional  courtesy 
whenever  it  suited  them. 


26  AUNT    MIRANDA. 

There  were  great  times  when  Christmas  came,  and 
Rowley  and  I  had  to  wait  until  the  younger  ones  had  gone 
to  bed,  before  we  could  steal  around  to  Aunt  Miranda's,  to 
bring  her  to  the  house,  with  the  great  basket  full  of  dolls, 
and  jumping  jacks,  and  tin  horses,  and  cornucopias,  and 
ducks  that  would  cry  "quaack"  and  open  their  bills,  when 
you  squeezed  the  patent  bellows  of  white  kid  upon  which 
they  stood.  And  then,  if  at  any  time  in  the  year,  would 
the  old  lady  put  on  one  of  those  sweet  smiles,  which  Row 
ley  and  I  thought  the  most  heavenly  we  had  ever  seen,  as 
she  filled  the  stockings  of  her  favorites — little  curly-headed 
Bell,  and  sturdy  Harry,  and  poor  Peter ;  whom  I  believe 
she  loved  best,  because  he  had  a  lame  foot  which  was  in 
curable,  and  the  handsomest  face  of  all. 

Nor  do  Rowley  and  I  forget  how  grand  and  formal  she 
was  with  strangers,  and  how  she  never  unbent  herself  be 
fore  Margaret,  her  handmaid,  who  had  lived  with  her  for 
thirty  years  and  upward,  and  how  Margaret  loved  her  and 
looked  up  to  her  ;  and  how,-  when  a  man  came  one  night 
to  see  Margaret,  what  a  sad  face  the  old  -lady  had  until  he 
was  gone  ;  and  how,  when  Margaret  came  up  with  a  plate 
full  of  apples  for  us  boys,  the  old  lady  said,  "  Margaret, 
never  do  you  marry  !  "  and  how  poor  Margaret  burst  into 
tears  and  said — "  It  was  only  a  man  from  her  father's  which 


AUNT    MIRANDA.  27 

were  married  already,  and  have  four  children — two  boys 
and  two  girls." 

Rowley  and  I  were  cousins,  but  Aunt  Miranda  was  his 
aunt,  not  mine,  nor  did  I  ever  call  her  by  that  name  until 
one  Sunday  afternoon,  when  Rowley  took  my  hand  in  his, 
and  went  up  to  her  as  she  was  sitting  by  the  front  window, 
and  said,  with  his  eyes  cast  down,  "  Aunt  Miranda,  mayn't 
he  call  you  Aunt  Miranda,  too  ?  "  and  the  old  lady  brushed 
away  the  glossy  brown  hair  from  his  forehead,  and  kissed 
it  very  softly,  and  then  turned  away  and  looked  out  of  the 
window  again,  and  I  have  called  her  Aunt  Miranda  ever 
since. 

It  was  difficult  for  Rowley  and  me  to  realize  that  which 
the  old  lady  told  us  of  at  times  ;  of  her  grand  parties, 
when  she  was  young  and  gay,  and  her  husband  was  one  of 
the  richest  and  handsomest  men  of  his  time ;  of  the  costly 
dresses  she  used  to  wear,  and  the  jewels  and  rouge  ;  and, 
most  difficult  of  all  to  imagine,  of  her  card-  parties,  when 
she  would  sit  up  until  near  morning,  playing  for  money, 
and  not  inconsiderable  sums  either,  to  please  her  husband, 
who  wished  her  to  be  as  fashionable  and  brilliant  as 
himself. 

Rowley  and  I  used  to  think,  at  times,  the  old  lady  felt 
some  pride  in  recalling  these  scenes,  when  she  was  a  bloom- 


28    .  AUNT    MIRANDA. 

ing  bride,  but  she  ended  always  with  the  sad  story  of 
wreck  and  ruin  which  followed  ;  of  her  gallant  and  hand 
some  husband  dying  of  the  fever,  a  bankrupt  ;  and  of  her 
taking  nearly  all  her  own  property  to  pay  his  debts  (which 
she  need  not  have  done),  until  the  last  creditor  was  satis 
fied  ;  and  then  Aunt  Miranda  was  left  with  a  slender  pit 
tance  and  an  only  daughter  to  begin  the  world  anew. 

But  of  that  daughter  not  a  word  had  been  spoken  for 
many  a  year.  Kowley  and  I  could  just  call  to  mind  a  face 
possessed  of  such  beauty  as  children  remember  like  a 
dream,  and  perhaps  never  find  again  in  life  ;  her  name 
was  no  more  mentioned  by  Aunt  Miranda,  nor  did  Kowley 
or  I  know  any  thing  except  that  it  was  a  mystery,  not  to 
be  breathed,  at  home  or  abroad,  to  others  or  ourselves. 
We  heard  once  of  a  Mrs.  Dangerfeldt — that  was  all — 
whether  living  or  dead  we  did  not  know,  and  did  not  dare 
to  inquire. 

One  day,  when  Kowley  was  lying  dangerously  ill  with 
the  quinsy  sore-throat,  I  went  to  ask  Aunt  Miranda  to 
come  and  see  him,  for  he  loved  to  have  her  by  his  bedside. 
The  cellar  door,  in  those  days,  was  never  fastened  until 
night,  and  as  it  was  Sunday  afternoon,  I  knew  Margaret 
was  at  church,  so,  without  giving  the  old  lady  the  trouble 
of  coming  to  the  hall  door,  I  opened  the  cellar  softly  and 


AUNT    MIRANDA.  29 

went  down  that  way.  There  is  something  desolate  in  a 
lonely  kitchen  on  Sunday  afternoon,  when  the  fires  have 
died  out,  and  the  cat  sits,  looking  wicked  and  suspicious, 
amid  the  cold  ashes  on  the  hearth.  I  know  my  footsteps 
were  as  light  as  pussy's  own  when  I  passed  through,  for  I 
did  not  want  to  disturb  the  silence  which  reigned  there, 
and  so,  ascending  the  narrow  stairs,  I  found  myself  in  the 
hall.  The  parlors  were  open — they  too  were  vacant. 
Then  it  was,  while  wondering  at  the  solitude,  I  heard  a 
sound  in  the  upper  room,  so  unlike  any  thing  I  had  ever 
heard — not  a  cry  of  grief,  or  groan  of  pain — but  a  faint, 
inarticulate  moaning,  so  different  from  a  human  voice,  and 
yet  so  unlike  that  of  an  animal,  that  my  very  flesh  crept 
with  terror.  My  pores  seemed  to  drink  in  the  sounds  as  I 
stood  there,  dumb  with  indefinable  dread,  and  some  mo 
ments  elapsed  before  I  could  collect  my  thoughts.  Then 
it  came  to  me  that  Aunt  Miranda  might  be  in  a  fit,  or 
something  of  the  kind,  and  so,  without  waiting,  I  bounded 
up  the  stairs  and  thrust  open  the  door  of  her  apartment. 
There  was  a  small  black  trunk  upon  the  floor,  open ; 
and  scattered  around  it  lay  several  dresses  which  had  evi 
dently  belonged  to  some  little  child.  But  oh,  the  piercing 
lustre  of  those  eyes  which  glared  upon  me  as  she  rose  from 
her  knees  when  I  entered  !  That  wild,  terrible  look,  as  if 


30  AUNT    MIRANDA. 

it  would  blast  me  ! — /,  who  had  rashly  ventured  in  upon 
the  mystery  which  had  been  buried,  as  within  a  tomb,  for 
so  many  years  !  Her  cap  was  thrust  back  from  her  high 
forehead,  and  the  thick  black  locks,  mingled  with  gray, 
appeared  to  writhe  around  her  fingers  like  serpents,  as  she 
came  on ;  her  lips  working,  but  uttering  no  sound,  until 
her  face  was  so  close  I  could  feel  her  hot  breath  upon  my 
cheek — and  then  stretching  forth  her  fingers  as  if  to  clutch 
me,  her  voice  came  forth  in  a  fierce,  passionate  sob,  and 
she  fell  forward,  and  rolled  over  at  my  feet. 

It  was  the  most  awful  moment  in  my  life,  as  I  stood 
there  with  clasped  hands,  looking  upon  the  poor,  senseless 
form  before  me  ;  instantly  I  heard  a  heavy  step  upon  the 
stairs  ;  fortunately,  it  was  the  faithful  Margaret  who  had 
returned,  and  the  blood  rushed  to  my  heart  with  such  joy 
when  I  saw  her  homely,  good-natured  face,  that  I  well-nigh 
swooned  with  the  sudden  revulsion. 

Some  time  elapsed  before  I  saw  Aunt  Miranda  again. 
It  was  at  night,  in  my  bedroom  ;  a  few  sticks  were  smoul 
dering,  and  darting  fitful  gleams  of  light  from  the  hearth, 
upon  the  looped  up  curtains  of  the  bed  ;  flickering  warmly 
within  the  folds  of  chintz  ;  and  now  and  then  bringing  to 
view  a  sickly  array  of  small  bottles  on  the  mantel.  Row 
ley  was  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  beside  it,  hold- 


AUNT    MIRANDA.  31 

ing  my  fever-wasted  hand  in  her  own,  with  the  same  sweet, 
angelic  smile  upon  her  face,  which  Kowley  and  I  loved  so 
much,  was  Aunt  Miranda.  I  had  been  delirious  for  some 
weeks  with  the  brain  fever. 

Kowley  and  I  loved  each  other  dearly.  We  had  had 
too  many  bickerings — too  many  little  quarrels — too  many 
heartfelt  reconciliations — for  either  of  us  not  to  know  that. 
So  after  we  graduated  (and  Kowley  had  the  valedictory), 
we  commenced  the  study  of  medicine  together,  with  Dr. 
Frisbee,  and  after  that  was  over,  put  up  our  two  narrow, 
black  tin  signs,  with  gold  letters,  on  a  very  white  window 
shutter,  one  under  the  other,  in  a  secluded  part  of  the 
town,  where  practice  was  plenty,  and  patients  were  poor. 

How  many  times  Aunt  Miranda  came  to  visit  us ! 
She  seemed  to  know  all  that  was  going  on  among  the  poor 
folks  in  our  neighborhood,  although  she  lived  in  a  distant 
part  of  the  town  ;  and  if  she  did  not  abate  one  jot  of  her 
dignity  when  with  the  poor,  her  efforts  to  relieve  the  suf 
ferers  never  flagged  ;  there  she  was,  by  the  bedside,  with 
the  same  smile  Kowley  and  I  loved  so  much  (that  angelic 
smile),  and  often  and  often  a  fee  was  paid  us  out  of  her 
own  pocket,  when  our  services  had  been  more  arduous  than 
usual.  It  was  of  no  use  to  refuse  it.  Aunt  Miranda  had 
an  imperative  way  with  her,  so  lofty,  we  did  not  dare  to 


32  AUNT    MIRANDA. 

contradict  it.  And  her  custom  (if  it  might  so  be  called) 
was  worth  more  to  us  than  that  of  all  the  rest  of  our  pa 
tients  put  togetjier. 

It  was  a  dreary  night  in  mid-winter  (how  well  I  re 
member  it),  when  Rowley  and  I  met  at  the  door  of  our  of 
fice  after  the  usual  rounds  among  the  sick.  It  was  late 
too  ;  the  only  light  visible  was  a  sort  of  luminous  halo 
which  surrounded  the  cellar  window  of  a  baker,  far  up  the 
street,  who  was  preparing  bread  for  the  morning.  Lamps 
there  were  none,  but  a  moon  was  somewhere,  which  only 
made  the  gloom  palpable  the  snow  did  not  fall,  but  swept 
through  the  streets  in  horizontal  lines,  blinding  and  sting 
ing  "  like  wasps'  tails,"  as  the  old  watchman  said  around 
the  corner.  While  we  stood  there  knocking  the  snow  off 
our  feet,  a  large  willow  tree  was  blown  down  across  the 
road,  and  a  white  ghastly  sheet  dropt  with  a  loud  noise 
from  the  roof  of  an  adjoining  house.  Rowley  and  I  were 
glad  to  get  by  the  office  hearth,  on  which  a  few  embers  kept 
a  bright  look-out  among  the  ashes,  and  so  laying  on  the 
wood  we  soon  had  a  cheerful  hickory  fire.  Still  the  wind 
growled  and  mumbled  outside,  with  the  dreary  accompani 
ment  of  creaking  signs  and  groaning  trees  ;  sometimes  it 
lulled  for  a  moment,  only  to  return  with  appalling  violence 
— the  house  fairly  rocked  with  it,  and  we  could  hear  the 


AUNT    MIRANDA.  33 

snow  beating  and  sifting  through  the  crevices  of  the  win 
dows.  Tired  as  we  were,  we  did  not  think  of  sleep,  but  sat  as 
men  sometimes  will  in  great  storms,  telling  dismal  stories,  or 
listening  to  the  noises  outside,  or  talking  of  the  poor  we  had 
visited,  many  of  whom  were  ill  provided  with  shelter  against 
such  pitiless  weather.  *So  the  time  passed  on  beyond  mid 
night  ;  the  wind  by  and  by  went  down,  but  the  snow  kept 
falling  softly  and  fast ; — I  thought  I  heard  a  noise- — hush  !— 
a  muffled  sound  like  a  watchman's  club  in  the  distance- — then 
another — then  voices  approaching,  we  heard  heavy  steps  on 
our  stoop,  and  a  loud  knock  at  the  doo*r.  Rowley  and  I  sprang 
to  our  feet  in  an  instant,  and  putting  back  the  bolt,  saw  three 
men,  watchmen,  bearing  a  body  ;  we  assisted  them  in,  they 
laid  him  (it  was  a  man)  upon  our  bed,  which  stood  partly 
behind  the  office  door ;  he  was  not  dead,  but  very  nearly  so. 
Upon  examination,  we  found  three  wounds  in  the  left 
temple  ;  the  central  one  larger  than  the  other  two,  but 
none  of  them  more  than  the  eighth  of  an  inch  square,  nor 
much  more  than  an  inch  apart — they  were  deep,  however, 
as  we  ascertained  by  the  probe.  The  largest  wept  a  little 
blood  with  every  pulsation  ;  the  man  was  insensible,  but 
his  chest  heaved  strongly  ;  we  knew  he  could  not  live  long, 
in  fact  in  the  course  of  an  hour  his  breathing  grew  fainter, 
and  fainter — stopped  :  he  was  dead. 


34  AUNT    MIRANDA. 

The  fatal  blow  had  been  given  with  a  weapon  so  differ 
ent  from  any  thing  we  could  imagine,  that  we  had  a  long- 
discussion  as  to  the  probabilities,  as  we  sat  there  by  the 
body  alone  ;  for  the  watchmen  had  left  us  to  see  if  they 
could  follow  the  track  of  the  murderer.  We  talked  on  in 
whispers  :  outside  it  grew  into  a  dead  calm,  and  now  it 
was  almost  daybreak. 

"  Hush  ! "  said  Rowley,  "  there  is  some  one  on  the 
stoop." 

We  listened, — there  was  a  faint  tap  on  the  window 
shutter.  Kowley  threw  open  the  office  door,  stepped  into 
the  hall,  and  drew  the  bolt.  "  What  do  you  want  ?  " — 
There  was  no  answer,  but  I  heard  a  step  in  the  hall  :  a 
man  walked  past  him,  and  entered  the  office.  As  I  said 
before,  the  bed  was  partly  hidden  by  the  door,  and  as  the 
man  walked  directly  towards  me,  he  did  not  see  that  which 
lay  behind  there,  close  to  the  wall,  on  the  side  opposite  to 
the  fireplace. 

He  was  a  tall,  and  had  been  a  muscular,  man,  but  noXv 
worn  down  with  sickness,  or  famine,  or  both ;  a  mass  of 
brown  hair  fell  from  beneath  his  cap,  and  mingled  with  his 
bushy  whiskers,  which  met  under  his  throat ;  his  clothes 
were  poor,  miserably  so ;  there  was  no  sign  of  a  shirt  at  his 
neck,  or  around  his  broad,  bony  wrists  ;  yet  I  did  not 


AUNT    MIRANDA.  35 

know  why,  he  did  not  seem  a  beggar  or  vagabond  ;  he 
had  a  proud,  defiant  look,  that  was  far  from  asking  any 
thing  of  the  world — in  fact,  a  man  you  might  shrink 
from,  but  could  not  despise. 

"  You  are  a  physician  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  slightly  broken 
accent,  German,  I  thought.  I  bowed.  "  And,"  he  con 
tinued,  placing  his  hand  on  his  brow  as  if  to  recollect 
something — "  yes — let  me  see — if  you  will  go — I  will  take 
you  there" — he  uttered  with  a  sharp  emphasis — "myself. 
Yet  something  may  happen  ;  it  is  food,  warmth,  shelter, 
she  requires,  as  well  as  medicines — take  this,  you,  for  fear 
of  accidents  ! "  He  displayed  a  roll  of  bills  which  he 
held  clutched  in  his  left  hand — "stay,"  he  added,  and 
taking  one  or  two,  which  he  thrust  into  an  old  ragged 
pocket,  offered  the  rest  to  me. 

Just  then,  Kowley  shut  the  office  door.  The  man 
turned  suddenly — such  a  look  as  he  gave  that  bed !  There 
it  lay — the  jaws  bound  up — the  white  cerements  soaked 
with  blood  from  the  temples,  ghastlier,  if  possible,  by 
the  dull  flame  of  the  office  candle,  and  the  uncertain 
light  from  the  fire.  But  recovering  instantly,  with  a  slight 
bow  to  me,  the  man  said,  "  Come,  you  may  save  a  life — an 
hour  hence  may  be  too  late." 

I  took  my  cloak.     He  opened  the  door  without  looking 


.36  AUNT    MIRANDA. 

again  toward  the  bed.  As  I  passed  on,  Rowley  caught 
my  arm  and  whispered,  "  I  suspect  that  man ;  had  we  not 
better " 

"  No,"  I  replied.  "  The  dying  woman  first — that  is 
something  the  law  takes  no  cognizance  of."  So,  wrapping 
my  cloak  closely  around  me,  I  followed. 

When  I  stepped  out  into  the  street,  I  was  surprised  at 
the  change  ;  the  moon  was  now  shining  brilliantly  in  the 
heavens,  and  the  hushed  snow  looked  beautiful  in  her  light. 
Every  roof,  wall,  and  chimney  threw  down  a  flat,  black 
effigy  of  itself,  in  sharp,  clearly  defined  shadow  on  that 
white,  sparkling  ground.  Here  and  there  a  tree  spread  its 
delicate  tracery  against  the  sky  ;  carts,  piled  up  with  snow, 
stood  hub-deep  in  snow  ;  fences  half-buried  in  snow  ;  piles 
of  logs,  with  their  black  ends  projecting  from  a  pyramid  of 
snow  ;  pumps,  with  beards  of  icicles,  and  crowns  of  snow  ; 
snow  everywhere,  on  every  thing,  met  the  eye  at  every  step. 
Absorbed  as  I  had  been  with  the  events  of  the  night,  I  could 
not  help  looking  with  admiration  upon  this  beautiful  scene, 
which  I  had  come  upon  so  unexpectedly.  So,  walking  on  in 
silence  with  my  companion,  we  came  close  to  a  man  before 
I  was  aware.  It  was  one  of  the  watchmen,  who  had  gone 
to  look  after  the  track  of  the  murderer. 

"  Ah,  Doctor — another  call,  hey  ?  " 


AUNT    MIRANDA.  37 

"  Yes." 

"  Waal,  we  ain't  got  onto  the  right  scent  yet ;  Bobbins 
and  Towsey  has  gone  down  to  the  Coroner's  ;  we  tracked 
him  way  up  beyond  the  burying  ground,  and  then  we  kind 
o'  think  he  must  'a  doubled ; "  (either  it  was  imagina 
tion,  or  my  companion  drew  closer  to  my  side) — "  but  he 
can't  be  fur  off.  Body  down  there  yet  ? " — He  pointed 
toward  the  office. 

"  Yes." 

"All  right,  I  hope — dead,  I  'spect,  hey  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Goodnight." 

I  had  a  feeling  of  relief  when  the  watchman  uttered 
these  last  words,. which  I  echoed  with  all  my  heart.  We 
passed  the  bakery,  now  paling  its  ineffectual  fires,  and 
struck  into  a  narrow  cross-street.  It  grew  darker,  for  a 
cloud  crossed  the  moon — we  came  to  a  blind  alley  or  entry 
— my  companion  went  in,  and  I. 

The  snow  had  drifted  into  the  alley  some  distance,  but 
I  soon  found  myself  upon  bare  boards,  rotted  in  the 
centre,  forming  a  sort  of  gutter,  in  which  my  foot  caught 
more  than  once  as  we  passed  through.  Then  we  came  to 
a  narrow  yard,  with  a  high  fence  ;  we  went  up  an  outside 
staircase,  so  old  and  flighty  it  trembled  with  every  step  ; 


38  AUNT    MIRANDA. 

and  then  turned  into  a  dark  passage  of  the  attic  through 
which  we  were  obliged  to  grope  our  way.  I  must  confess, 
I  felt  some  trepidation  to  be  alone  with  such  a  man,  in 
such  a  place.  "  Duty — courage  !  "  I  muttered.  The 
words  went  straight  to  my  heart,  and  I  was  reassured  : 
we  came  to  a  door  which  my  companion  opened,  and  I 
found  myself  in  a  little  room. 

The  cloud  had  passed  from  the  moon,  and  her  light 
shone  full  through  the  dormer  window,  casting  the  outlines 
of  the  casement  down  upon  the  floor,  which  was  partly 
covered  with  snow  that  had  blown  through  the  broken 
panes.  A  bed,  if  bed  it  could  be  called,  was  in  one  corner, 
and  as  we  entered,  a  figure  sat  up.  and  turned  its  face 
toward  us  and  the  moonlight. 

There  have  been  moments  in  my  life,  (and  such,  I  be 
lieve,  is  the  experience  of  many,)  when  what  was  before 
me  seemed  the  remembrance  only  of  something  seen  before 
— as  if  the  same  thing  passed  over  twice — as  if  one  had  a 
glimpse  of  pre-existence,  identical  with  this,  but  referable 
to  life  beyond  the  scope  of  memory ;  more  vivid  than  any 
dream,  but  more  fleeting  and  mysterious. 

Such  a  feeling  I  had,  when  that  face  turned  toward  us 
and  the  moonlight.  It  was  that  of  a  woman.  Long, 
black  elf-locks  coiled  around  a  face,  wasted,  it  is  true,  but 
still  surprisingly  "beautiful.  The  brilliant  hectic,  which  ac- 


AUNT    MIRANDA.  39 

companies  certain  kinds  of  fever,  was  in  her  cheeks,  her 
eyes  were  large,  and  from  the  same  cause,  lustrous  ;  she 
gave  a  smile  of  recognition,  it  seemed,  which  showed  a  row 
of  white  teeth,  and  suddenly  turning,  lifted  a  bundle  from 
the  bed,  which  she  rocked  to  and  fro. 

"It  is  our  little  one,"  said  the  man,  " wait  here  ;  I  am 
going  for  something  to  build  a  fire."  He  turned,  and  then 
I  heard  his  heavy  footsteps  as  he  descended  the  outside 
stairs.  Frequent  as  had  been  my  opportunities  of  seeing 
the  condition  of  the  poor,  nothing  I  had  met  with  could 
compare  with  the  utter  barrenness  of  that  apartment.  With 
the  exception  of  the  bed,  which  lay  upon  the  floor  (a  mis 
erable  heap  of  ragged  carpet),  there  was  nothing  to  be 
seen  ;  neither  table,  nor  chair,  nor  plate,  nor  cup,  nor  a 
single  article  to  cook  with ;  the  walls  were  black  with 
smoke  and  dirt,  but  there  was  no  vestige  of  a  fire  ;  there 
was  nothing  in  the  room,  but  the  rags,  the  woman  and 
her  child,  and  the  snow.  Yet  to  me  it  seemed  a  recollec 
tion  of  something  seen  before. 

The  man  returned  now  with  short  pieces  of  firewood 
from  the  neighboring  bakery,  and  a  bright  fire  sparkled 
upon  the  desolate  heartn.  Then  he  laid  a  loaf  tenderly  by 
her  side  and  said,  "  She  has  not  tasted  such  as  that  for 
weeks — but  what  shall  we  do,  now,  Doctor  ?  " 

A  young  physician  has  need  of  practice  among  the 


40  AUNT    MIRANDA. 

poor  to  answer  such  a  question.  He  may  acquire  experi 
ence  enough  in  ordinary  cases,  to  obtain  a  certain  degree 
of  skill  in  examining  the  diagnosis  of  a  peculiar  complaint. 
Sickness  is,  indeed,  a  sad  visitant  among  those  in  comfort 
able  circumstances,  but  when  it  comes  accompanied  with 
penury,  cold,  and  famine  ;  when  the  fever,  or  the  pesti 
lence,  stalks  among  the  helpless  indigent,  it  is  indeed  ter 
rible.  Look  at  the  records  of  the  City  Inspector,  ye  who 
have  abundant  means,  and  believe  me,  it  is  a  lesson  better 
worth  learning  than  many  a  plethoric  sermon  you  listen  to 
in  your  velvet-lined  pew  ! 

The  woman  now  lay  on  the  floor,  motionless,  in  a  sort 
of  torpor,  with  her  eyes  partly  open ;  it  did  not  require 
much  penetration  to  discover  the  symptoms  of  that  visita 
tion  known  as  the  malignant  scarlet  fever.  It  had  been 
prevalent  in  our  neighborhood,  and  the  cases  were  unusu 
ally  fatal ;  so  I  told  him,  as  I  rested  on  my  knees  by  the 
bedside.  He  said  nothing,  but  merely  clasped  his  hands 
and  pressed  them  very  hard  over  his  eyes. 

"  Have  you  nothing,"  said  I,  "to  close  up  those  broken 
panes,  and  keep  out  this  bitter  cold  ?  " 

He  took  off  his  poor  ragged  coat,  but  I  told  him  my 
old  cloak  would  be  better,  which  he  accepted  thankfully, 
and  stuffed  it  into  the  apertures  of  the  casement.  In 


AUNT    MIRANDA.  41 

coming  back,  his  foot  pushed  something  through  the  heap 
of  snow  beneath  the  window.  It  was  a  piece  of  oak 
stick  about  five  feet  long,  and  a  few  inches  in  width, 
studded  with  nails  driven  through  it,  as  if  it  had  been  a 
cleat  or  batten,  stripped  from  some  old  house  or  box  ;  it 
was  also  broken  at  one  end.  He  laid  it  hastily  upon  the 
fire,  but  it  was  so  saturated  with  moisture  it  would  not 
burn.  I  knew  not  why,  but  I  watched  with  intense  inter 
est  the  flames  idly  curling  around  it. 

"  How  old  is  this  child  ?  "  I  was  looking  at  the  wasted 
features  of  his  little  girl. 

"  About  four  years  ;  our  boy  was  fifteen,  he  is  dead  ; 
I  could  almost  say — thank  God." 

"  She  has  not  the  fever  I  perceive — if  I  may  take  her 
with  me,  I  am  sure  I  will  find  for  her  a  place  of  shelter. 
(I  thought  of  aunt  Miranda's.)  To  move  your  wife  now 
would  be  fatal — we  must  make  her  comfortable  here  if  pos 
sible." 

He  bowed  his  head  slightly.  "  You  can — you  will  at 
tend  to  that,  I  hope,"  he  said.  "  If  I  am  called  away,  you 
have  the  money  I  gave  you,  which  use  as  you  think  best." 

"  Money  ?  you  gave  me  no  money,"  I  replied ;  "  you 
offered  it  but  I  did  not  take  it — do  you  not  remember  when 
the  office  door  shut,  and  you  turned  around  so  suddenly  ?  " 


42  AUNT    MIRANDA. 

The  man  stared  at  me  with  a  wild  unutterable  look  in 
his  eyes,  which  made  me  shrink  back  j  he  clutched  his 
breast  convulsively  with  his  hand,  threw  open  the*  door,  and 
staggered  out  as  if  struck  with  a  blow.  Just  then  I  heard 
footsteps  on  the  outside  stairs  ;  then  a  noise  ;  voices  ;  and 
a  scuffle.  I  ran  out ;  two  men,  officers  of  police,  had  him 
by  the  arms,  but  he  was  swaying  them  like  reeds.  Sud 
denly  one  of  his  assailants  slipped,  and  fell  the  whole  length 
of  the  stairs ;  in  a  moment  he  had  lifted  the  other  and 
thrown  him  over  the  rails,  down,  perhaps  twenty  feet,  into 
the  yard  below  ;  and  then  with  a  bound  cleared  it  himself, 
regained  his  feet,  and  dashed  through  the  alley.  I  went 
down  to  assist  the  policemen.  One  was  stunned  by  the 
fall  down  the  stairs — in  fact  nearly  dislocated  his  neck ; 
the  other  had  sprained  his  ankle  and  could  not  walk. 

"  He's  paddled,  Jimmy,"  said  the  man  with  the  bad  ankle. 

Jimmy,  who  was  sitting  up  on  his  end  in  the  snow, 
assented  to  the  truth  of  the  remark  by  a  short  grunt. 

"  That's  the  man,  Doctor  ;  "•  growled  the  policeman,  as 
I  assisted  him  to  rise  ;  "he  dropt  a  roll  of  bills  in  your 
office,  which  belonged  to  dizeezed.  Also  we  found  his 
pocket-book  empty  in  the  street,  and  a  piece  of  batten, 
with  three  nails,  that  fits  the  wownds.  Where's  that 
Barker  ?  "  he  continued.  Barker  hopped  upon  one  leg  to 


AUNT    MIRANDA.  43 

the  side  of  the  staircase,  and  picked  up  the  batten.  I  went 
up  the  stairs,  took  off  the  now  partly-burnt  oak  stick 
from  the  fire,  and  found  the  fractured  end  fitted  exactly 
the  piece  found  by  the  officers.  There  was  no  doubt  as  to 
who  was  the  murderer. 

It  was  now  broad  daylight.  One  of  the  officers  took  a 
survey  of  the  room — the  woman  still  lay  asleep  ;  then  he 
assisted  his  limping  companion  through  the  alley  ;  I  was 
again  alone,  but  Kowley  soon  joined  me.  After  a  brief 
recital  of  the  events  which  had  passed,  I  borrowed  his 
cloak,  wrapped  it  around  the  little  girl,  and  leaving  him 
with  the  patient,  carried  my  light  young  burden  toward 
the  house  of  Aunt  Miranda. 

Was  it  not  strange  that  she,  the  proud,  unbending 
Aunt  Miranda,  was  the  only  one  of  all  my  acquaintances, 
with  whom*  I  could  take  such  a  liberty  ?  In  truth  I  felt 
as  if  I  had  been  commanded  by  her  to  do  what  I  was  doing. 
Such  a  thing  as  her  refusing  to  admit  the  faint,  thin, 
ghostly  little  unfortunate,  with  its  manifold  wants— carry 
ing  in  its  veins,  perhaps,  a  deadly  pestilence,  never  entered 
my  mind.  I  was  not  mistaken  ;  I  remember  now  how 
gently,  and  yet  how  grandly  she  took  the  slight  load  of 
poverty  in  her  arms — not  holding  it  from,  but  pressing 
it  to  her  breast ;  how,  an  hour  after,  I  found  it  wide  awake, 


44  AUNT    MIRANDA. 

and  seated  in  her  lap,  comfortably  clad  in  one  of  those 
dresses  I  imagined  I  had  seen  years  before,  on  a  certain 
occasion,  when  my  boy's  heart  seemed  shrivelling  up  with 
terror.  I  had  told  her  the  story  of  the  man  and  his  wife, 
and  asked  her  advice.  She  coincided  with  me  that  it 
would  not  do  to  remove  the  sufferer,  but  added,  "  we  can 
make  her  room  comfortable,  I  trust,"  and  then  in  a  stiff, 
precise  sort  of  way — "  Margaret  and  I  will  nurse  the  poor 
creature  by  turns.  Has  she  no  friends,  no  family 
connections  here  ?"  she  asked,  after 'a  pause. 

"  None,  I  imagine  ;  surely  if  she  had  they  would  have 
some  pity  for  her.  Even  the  poorest  might  have  spared 
something  for  such  an  abject." 

"  I  think,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  I  will  go  there  now. 
Margaret !  my  shawl  and  hat ;  bring  the  .muff  too ; 
it  is  bitter  cold.  Let  the  man  stop  shovelling  the 
snow  from  the  walk ;  give  him  three  blankets  and  a 
pillow,  and  let  him  go  with  me.  Do  you  go  on  before," 
she  continued,  looking  at  me  ;  "  you  walk  faster  than  I." 
Then  she  turned  to  the  child  with  one  of  those  angelic 
smiles .  Kowley  and  I  loved  so  much,  and  lifting  it  gently 
from  her  lap,  laid  it  in  a  warm  little  nest  she  had  made  for 
it  on  the  sofa.  I  gave  her  directions  how  to  find  the  place, 
and  once  more  was  on  my  way  towards  my  patient. 


AUNT    MIRANDA.  45 

When  I  readied  the  miserable  street  in  which  she  lived, 
I  met  Eowley.  He  told  me  he  had  procured  an  old  black 
wench  to  act  as  nurse  ;  "  but/'  said  he,  "  I  fear  it  will  be 
of  little  avail ;  she  has  been  delirious  ever  since  you  left, 
and  calls  in  the  most  piteous  way  for  her  child — her  'Andy.3 
From  what  I  gather,  she  must  have  eloped,  or  something 
of  the  kind,  when  very  young.  I  never  saw  any  thing 
more  touching  than  the  way  she  stretches  out  her  arms 
and  cries,  e  Forgive  me,  mother  ;  forget  and  forgive,  oh  my 
mother  ! '  I  believe  too,"  continued  Kowley,  "  they  were 
not  married  at  first,  but  a  year  or  so  after  she  ran  away. 
I  had  some  broth  made  for  her,  which  she  ate  but  little  of, 
putting  it  aside  and  calling  ( Andy !  Andy  !  here — my  child, 
my  child  ! '  " 

"  Andy/'  said  I,  "  is  a  boy's  name." 

"  So  it  is,"  answered  Kowley  ;  "  I  do  not  know  how  to 
account  for  it,  but  she  evidently  meant  the  little  girl,  for 
she  kept  feeling  in  the  vacant  place  for  her.  Sometimes 
she  would  upbraid  her,  and  say, '  You  have  learnt  my  lesson 
by  heart,  you  wicked  Andy  ;  but  you  are  worse  than  I,  for 
you  began  younger.'  I  gave  her  an  anodyne,"  continued 
Rowley,  "  but  it  has  had  little  effect  upon  her — poor  thing ; 
she  cannot  live,  I  fear." 

While  we  were  talking,  we  saw  coming  up  the  street, 


46  AUNT    MIRANDA. 

in  the  most  lofty  and  dignified  manner  possible,  Aunt  Mi 
randa,  followed  by  the  man  with  the  basket  and  the  blan 
kets.  Although  her  dress  was  always  plain,  and  never  costly, 
the  old  lady  had  such  a  way  with  her  you  could  not  mistake 
her  for  a  resident  of  that  quarter  ;  nor  would  you  take  her 
to  be  a  relative,  or  an  acquaintance  of  the  people  there.  You 
felt  at  once  she  was  on  a  mission  of  some  kind  ;  and  yet 
there  was  nothing  about  her  of  the  benevolent  lady  who 
might  be  vice-president  of  fifty  auxiliary  sewing  societies, 
and  who,  by  personal  inspection,  kept  a  sharp  look-out  that 
no  impostor,  in  the  disguise  of  a  pauper,  swallowed  any 
crumbs  that  fell  from  the  tables  of  the  humane  associ 
ation  for  the  relief  of  the  meritorious  indigent.  There 
was  not  a  drop  of  haughty  blood  in  her  veins,  nor  the 
slightest  touch  of  condescension  in  her  manner — with  her, 
it  was  one  of  two  things,  either  real,  heart-felt  kindness,  or 
firm,  inexorable  pride. 

When  she  came  up,  Kowley  and  I  made  her  acquainted 
with  the  present  state  of  our  patient,  and  of  her  anxiety 
for  the  child  we  had  spirited  away.  We  also  mentioned 
the  fact  of  her  speaking  of  her  own  mother,  and  hinted  at 
the  possibility  of  her  having  committed  some  unpardonable 
act ;  such  as  an  elopement  without  marriage,  or  the  like, 
by  which  she  had  disgraced  her  family.  We  did  not  go 


AUNT    MIRANDA.  47 

into  details,  however  ;  once  or  twice  a  shadow,  as  it  were, 
passed  over  the  face  of  Aunt  Miranda.  "  Well,  well/'  she 
said,  rather  sharply,  "  let  us  go  on,  let  us  go  on,  and  see 
what  can  be  done  for  her — poor  creature." 

I  have  read  of  officers,  who,  in  the  battle-field,  pre 
served  the  stiff,  erect  carriage  of  the  parade  ground,  but 
my  doubt  about  the  truth  of  the  story  never  entirely  dis 
appeared  until  I  saw  Aunt  Miranda  ascend  tliat  staircase. 
We  reached  the  room — "  Shall  I  leave  these  here  ?  "  said 
the  man  who  brought  the  blankets. 

"  No — stay  until  I  tell  you  to  go/'  replied  Aunt  Miranda. 
He  obeyed  of  course. 

If  the  room  looked  dismal  by  moonlight  and  early 
dawn,  it  was  doubly  so  in  the  broad,  open  sunlight.  The 
walls,  begrimed  with  smoke,  and  stained  with  water,  that 
had  trickled  from  the  roof,  were  full  of  cracks  and  crevices  ; 
here  and  there  large  pieces  of  plaster  had  fallen,  exposing 
the  laths  ;  the  floor,  no  longer  hidden  by  the  snow,  was 
spongy  with  age,  and  rotted  away  in  some  places,  and  the 
miserable  heap  which  served  for  a  bed,  was  a  sickening 
bundle  of  mouldy  rags  and  fragments  of  old  carpet.  "  I 
never  saw  such  misery/'  said  Aunt  Miranda,  looking  at  me 
and  clasping  her  hands. 

The  poor  old  blear-eyed  wench,  who  was  rocking  herself 


48  AUNT    MIRANDA. 

over  the  fire,  got  off  the  stool  she  had  brought  with  her, 
and  offered  it  to  Aunt  Miranda.  The  old  lady  took  it  with 
the  tips  of  her  fingers,  gave  it  a  shake  or  two,  and  sat 
down  in  her  lofty  way  beside  the  bed.  The  woman,  lying 
with  her  face  partly  covered,  partly  turned  to  the  wall,  was 
muttering  something  to  herself.  At  last  we  could  make 
out  these  words  : — 

"  The  cunning  minx  when  she  looked  up  at  me  with  her 
bright,  wicked  eyes,  learned  that  secret  then.  She  drew 
it  from  me  as  I  suckled  her  at  the  breast ;  drew  it  from  me 
when  a  babe — I  learned  it,  and  she  learned  it.  But  she 
began  earlier  than  I.  Why  not  ?  The  son  did  so.  But 
he  died  in  my  arms,  poor  boy,  when  his  race  was  run.  But 
Andy  I  shall  see  no  more.  Never,  never.  That's  a  lesson 
for  mothers.  Your  boys  are  always  your  boys,  but  your 
girls  are  other  men's.  My  mother !  my  mother !  my 
mother  !  Let  her  pull  up  the  green  grass  from  my  grave, 
and  trample  on  it,  yet  I  will  love  her  better  than  my 
daughter  loves  me.  Yes,  yes.  The  sun  dies  and  the  day 
dies,  but  we  keep  close  to  the  men  we  love.  Let  him  beat 
me — let  me  scoop  the  crust  from  the  swill  of  our  neighbors, 
yet  we  love  on.  He  stole  me  in  the  snow,  and  we'll  die  in 
the  snow.  There  are  the '  bells  and  the  Bays  round  the 
corner ;  off  only  for  a  frolic  and  a  dance — but  we  never 


AUNT    MIRANDA.  49 

came  back.  There  she  sits,  with  the  light  burning — waiting 
for  her  daughter — waiting — waiting.  There  she  sits  now, 
mother,  mother,  mother  !  He  had  a  sweet  voice  once  ;  oh 
the  songs — the  songs  that  won  my  heart ! "  Here  she  sat 
up  erect  in  the  bed,  and  turned  her  brilliant  eyes  full  upon 
Aunt  Miranda. 

I  had  been  watching  that  gothic  countenance  during 
the  monologue  of  the  poor  creature,  wrapped  in  her  rags. 
I  had  noticed  the  gradations  which  passed  over  it — first  of 
patient  complaisance,  then  of  pity,  then  of  absorbed  inter 
est.  But  when  those  large  bright  eyes  flashed  upon  Aunt 
Miranda,  she  started  with  such  an  instant,  terrible  look  of 
recognition — with  the  history  of  a  whole  life  of  sorrow,  as 
it  were,  written  on  her  face  in  a  moment,  that  it  was  abso 
lutely  appalling.  I  read  it  at  once.  The  mystery  had 
unfolded  itself  before  me.  That  inexorable  spirit ;  those 
lineaments,  saving  the  slight  tremulous  motion  of  the  chin, 
rigid  as  sculptured  stone  ;  those  fixed  dilated  eyes,  were 
those  of  the  mother,  who,  without  seeking  for,  had  found, 
after  seventeen  years,  in  yonder  squalid  heap,  her  daughter, 
her  only  child,  once  her  pride,  her  hope — now,  what  ? 

"  Do  not  hurt  me,"  said  the  poor  creature,  shrinking 
from  her,  "  I  will  not  harm  you  for  the  world." 

I  saw  the  tremulous  motion  from  the  chin  spread  itself 


50  AUNT    MIRANDA. 

over  the  whole  visage  of  Aunt  Miranda.  Tears  sprang  from 
her  eyes,  her  pride  was  unequal  to  this  trial.  The  founda 
tion  gave  way,  then  the  superstructure  fell — was  submerged 
for  ever,  and  above  it  rose  the  beautiful  rainbow  of  consola 
tion.  She  took  the  squalor,  the  misery,  the  pestilence,  the 
poor  wreck  of  a  life  in  her  arms,  and  sanctified  it  with  a 
mother's  pity,  and  a  mother's  blessing. 

I  felt  at  this  time  an  uncommon  moistening  of  the  eye 
lids  ;  and  the  man  with  the  blankets  managed  to  drop  his 
basket,  with  a  view  probably  of  relieving  his  mind.  As 
for  the  poor  wench,  she  was  in  a  corner,  and  a  paroxysm  of 
tears. 

To  tell  how  our  patient  recovered,  how  little  Miranda, 
or  "Andy,"  as  we  called  her,  budded  and  bloomed  into 
womanhood  ;  how  the  body  of  Dangerfeldt  was  found  in 
the  river,  near  the  Dry  Dock,  that  fatal  morning,  would,  I 
fear,  not  add  much  to  my  story.  But  Aunt  Miranda  grew 
in  grace,  her  pride  was  gone,  she  became  the  meekest  of 
the  meek ;  only  upon  two  occasions,  in  after  life,  did  she 
remind  me  of  her  former  self :  one  was  that  of  the  mar 
riage  of  Margaret,  her  handmaid,  to  the  man  with  the 
four  children  (who  had  lost  his  wife,  by  the  way)  ;  and 
the  other  was,  when  a  sharp,  prying,  inquisitive  little 
woman  asked  her,  in  a  free  and  easy  sort  of  way,  "  if  the 


AUNT    MIRANDA.  51 

husband  of  Mrs.  Dangerfeldt  had  not  met  with  some  ter 
rible  accident,  or  something  of  the  kind,  when  he  came  to 
his  end?" 

One  day,  a  wet  and  stormy  one  I  remember,  the  24th 
of  December,  Aunt  Miranda  had  bought  a  large  turkey,  of 
a  huckster,  in  the  market.  She  always  bargained  for 
every  thing — paid  what  she  agreed  to  pay — and  kept  herself 
comfortably  within  the  limits  of  her  income.  So  she  knew 
always  exactly  the  state  of  her  finances,  which  she  kept 
not  in  a  book,  but  in  a  long  ash-colored  silk  purse.  When 
she  came  home  she  found  the  man  had  paid  her  two  cents 
too  much.  So  back  to  market  goes  Aunt  Miranda,  in  a 
very  nervous  state,  for  fear  the  man  might  be  off  before 
she  got  there.  Fortunately  the  man  was  there,  to  whom 
she  returned  the  money  belonging  to  him,  but  unfortu 
nately  she  took  a  cold,  from  which  she  never  recovered. 
It  was  more  like  the  living,  than  the  dead  face,  of  Aunt 
Miranda,  that  which  lay  in  the  coffin,  with  the  smile  upon 
the  face,  Rowley  and  I  loved  so  much — that  angelic 
smile  ! 


H  E  T  A  B  E  L 


rpHERE'S  a  deep  pond  hid  in  yon  piny  cover 
1       That's  garlanded  with  rose-blooms  wild  and  sweet, 
Emvreathed  with  pensile  willows,  hanging  over 
Green,  bowery  nooks,  and  many  a  soft  retreat 
Where  Hetabel  and  I  did  often  meet. 


54  HETABEL. 

There  the  brown  throstle  sings,  there  skims  the  swallow, 
There  the  blue  budded  ash  its  foliage  weaves 

From  deep-struck  roots,  broidered  with  sed£e  and  mallow  ; 
Fair  lies  the  pool,  beneath  its  ridgy  ea^s, 
Blotted  with  waxen  pods  and  ornate  leaves. 

There  workless  rests  the  mill,  each  withered  shingle 

Lets  through  the  sun-threads  on  the  knotted  floor  ; 

There,  where  the  village  hinds  were  wont  to  mingle, 
Tall  weeds  upspring  ;  and  in  the  cobwebbed  door, 
One  sees  plain  written,  "they  shall  come  no  more  !" 

There  the  white  cottage  stands  !  shadow'd  and  sullen, 
Its  ruined  porch  with  fruitless  vines  o'erclung  ; 

In  beds,  and  pebbled  paths,  the  vagrant  mullen 

Tops  the  rank  briers,  where  once  musk  roses  sprung, 
Heart's-ease,  and  slender  spires  with  blue-bells  hung. 

There,  in  that  solitude,  deserted,  lonely, 
Closed  in  a  little  Eden  of  our  own, 

Unvisited,  save  by  the  wood  birds  ;  only 
Ourselves  (sweet  Hetabel  and  I)  alone, 
Our  very  trysting  place  unsought,  unknown, 

Wandered  ;  sometimes  beneath  the  pine's  dark  shadow, 
Sometimes,  at  evening,  when  the  mill's  thick  flume 


HETABEL. 


Trembled  in  silver  ;  and  the  distant  meadow 

Was  half  snow  white — half  hid  in  sunken  gloom, 
Even  as  our  own  lives — half  joy,  half  doom. 


Half  joy — half  doom  !  the  blissful  years  are  faded. 
And  the  dark,  shadowed  half  is  left  to  me  ; 

By  grief,  not  time,  my  scattered  hairs  are  braided 

With  silver  threads.     And  HETABEL  ?     Ah,  she 
Sleeps  by  her  babe  beneath  the  cypress-tree  ! 


OEANGE    BLOSSOMS. 

T  DOUBT  whether  any  man,  be  he  young  or  old,  ever  at 
tended  the  wedding  of  a  young  bride  without  a  certain 
feeling  of  awe.  To  me  the  service  appears  more  impres 
sive  than  that  of  a  funeral.  The  pall  lies  upon  the  poor 
pale  effigy ;  we  listen  to  the  words  of  hope  and  consola 
tion  ;  the  tributary  tears  fall  as  the  mournful  pageant 
moves  on  ;  the  tomb  closes  ;  night  falls  around  it ;  and  in 
the  darkness  and  silence  we  turn  from  the  dead,  dumb, 
voiceless  past,  to  seek  new  loves  and  new  sympathies  with 
the  living. 

But  a  bride,  in  the  morning  of  her  days  ;  standing  up 
on  the  threshold  of  a  new  existence  ;  crowned  like  a  queen 
with  the  virgin  coronal,  soon  to  be  laid  aside,  for  ever  ;  with 
the  uncertain  future  before  her  ;  repeating  those  solemn 


58  ORANGE   BLOSSOMS. 

pledges,  and  assuming  those  solemn  responsibilities  which 
belong  not  to  maidenhood  ;  robed  in  the  vestments  of  in 
nocence,  and  giving  her  young,  confiding  heart,  into  the 
keeping  of  another  ;  seems  to  me  a  more  touching  specta 
cle  than  that  denoted  by  the  nodding  plumes,  the  sad 
procession,  and  the  toll  of  the  funeral  bell. 

There  was  more  levity  and  love  in  Rowley's  composi 
tion  than  in  mine*;  at  least  they  were  more  easily  excited 
in  him  than  in  me.  He  was  always  beside  some  pretty 
girl  or  other  ; — at  a  party  he  would  be  smiling  and  chat 
ting  with,  perhaps,  half  a  dozen,  while  I  was  only  too  happy 
if  I  could  get  into  a  corner  with  one.  Once  or  twice  I 
was  reproved  for  trifling  with  the  affections  of  certain  young 
ladies  ;  "I  had  been  too  particular  in  my  attentions  "  they 
said.  Trifling  with  affection  !  I  trifle  !  such  a  thing  as 
anybody  falling  in  love  with  me  never  suggested  itself.  If 
it  had,  a  glance  at  the  severe,  homely  face  I  was  obliged  to 
shave  every  morning,  sufficed  to  put  that  conceit,  out  of  my 
head.  Besides,  the  mere  idea  of  that  beautiful  mystery 
called  "  a  wedding,"  was  enough  to  bewilder  me.  I  could 
no  more  have  asked  Fanny  Hazleton  (the  most  intimate 
friend  I  had,  except  Rowley)  to  assist  me  in  getting  up 
some  nuptials  for  the  benefit  of  our  friends,  than  I  could 


ORANGE    BLOSSOMS.  59 

have  stepped  upon  the  stage  and  played  Romeo  to  Fanny 
Kemble's  Juliet.  Yet  the  subject  was  a  favorite  one  with 
Rowley  and  me  as  we  sat  by  the  office  fire  ;  the  difference 
between  us  was,  he  always  associated  it  with  some  pretty 
girl  of  his  acquaintance,  but  to  me  it  was  something  illu 
sive,  and  remote  ;  suggestive  mainly  of  an  ideal  white  veil, 
and  an  imaginary  chaplet  of  orange  flowers. 

One  evening  Rowley  took  some  loose  papers  from  the 
table.  "  Listen,"  said  he,  "  and  tell  me  who  this  reminds 
you  of " 

"  To  gaze  upon  the  fairy  one,  who  stands 
Before  you,  with  her  young  hair's  shining  bands, 
And  rosy  lips  half  parted ; — and  to  muse 
Not  on  the  features  which  you  now  peruse, 
Nor  on  the  blushing  bride,  but  look  beyond 
Unto  the  angel  wife,  nor  feel  less  fond 
To  keep  thee  but  to  one,  and  let  that  one 
Be  to  thy  life  what  warmth  is  to  the  sun, 
And  fondly,  closely  cling  to  her,  nor  fear 
The  fading  touch  of  each  declining  year. 
This  is  true  love,  when  it  hath  found  a  rest 
In  the  deep  home  of  manhood's  faithful  breast." 

"  Now,"  said  Rowley  with  a  smile  which  poorly  con 
cealed  a  lurking  disquiet,  "  who  did  you  think  of  while  I 
was  reading  ?  " 


60  ORANGE  BLOSSOMS. 

"Nobody/'  I  answered.  "I  was  struck  merely  with 
the  beauty  of  the  verses." 

"  Oh  cousin,  cousin  !  "  and  Rowley,  turning  his  head  a 
little,  looked  at  me  askance  ;  "  tell  me  ;  did  not  a  pretty 
young  lady  of  our  acquaintance  come  into  your  mind  while 
I  was  reading  ?  " 

"No,"  I  said,  "who  can  you  allude  to  ?" 

"  A  very  pretty  girl,"  answered  poor  Kowley,  and  added 
in  rather  a  tremulous  voice,  "her  name  begins  with  an  F." 

"Fanny  Hazleton?" 

Rowley  nodded, — I  thought  he  looked  uncommonly 
serious. 

"  Fanny  Hazleton  ?  "  I  repeated,  "  why  Rowley,  she  is 
the  last  person  I  would  have  thought  of." 

"  Are  you  serious  in  what  you  say  ?  "  Rowley  was  very 
much  in  earnest  when  he  put  this  question.  "  Tell  me  ; 
Do  you  mean  what  you  say  ?  Are  you  not  in  love  with 
Fanny — very  much  in  love  ?  " 

"  Well,  Rowley,"  I  replied,  "  since  you  have  brought 
me  to  think  over  the  matter,  I  am  not  sure  but  what  I 
am." 

My  cousin  sank  back  in  the  chair,  thrust  his  hand  in 
his  breast,  which  I  perceived  rose  and  fell  with  the  tide  of 
emotion,  and  sighed  heavily. 


ORANGE    BLOSSOMS.  61 

"  And  what  if  I  do  love  her  ? "  I  continued,  "  there 
are  not  many  like  her/' 

Rowley  cast  a  look  at  me  of  the  most  sorrowful  acqui 
escence. 

"  But  I  am  afraid  Fanny's  sentiments  towards  me,  are 
not  such  as  would  induce  her  to  place  her  happiness  in  my 
keeping." 

Here  a  burning  stick  of  wood  rolled  from  the  fire  almost 
to  Rowley's  feet.  He  did  not  move,  so  I  took  the  tongs 
and  put  it  back. 

"  Rowley,  what  is  the  matter  ?  I  was  only  bantering 
you.  Fanny  does  not  love  me  ;  I  am  sure  of  that.  With 
me  she  is  too  confiding — too  sisterly.  Come,  cousin,  since 
you  question  me  I  will  question  you.  Are  you  not  in  love 
with  Fanny — very  much  in  love  ?  " 

He  laid  his  hot  hand  upon  mine,  and  pressed  it  very 
hard.  Poor  Rowley  ! 

At  this  time  the  influenza  was  prevalent  in  our  part 
of  the  town,  sometimes  attended  with  all  the  symp 
toms  of  a  severe  bilious  fever.  I  remember  crawling  out 
into  the  warm  May  sun,  after  some  weeks'  confinement,  and 
imprudently  walking  so  far,  I  was  obliged  to  get  a  carriage 
to  convey  me  home  again.  Of  course  this  little  bit  of  un 
professional  practice  was  followed  by  a  relapse,  and  it  was 


62  ORANGE    BLOSSOMS. 

almost  the  middle  of  June  before  I  was  again  able  to  go 
about.  By  the  advice  of  two  physicians  (Kowley  and  my 
self),  I  took  that  most  agreeable  prescription  "  change  of 
«ir,"  and  found  myself  much  recruited  after  a  few  days' 
sojourn  at  Saratoga  Springs. 

There  -are  few  places  more  captivating  to  the  eye  than 
the  breadth  of  greenery  bounded  by  the  spacious  piazzas 
of  the  United  States  Hotel  at  Saratoga.  In  the  "leafy 
month  of  June "  it  is  peculiarly  so.  Leaves,  sunshine,  and 
greensward  mingle  harmoniously.  There  is  none  of  the 
rush  and  excitement  of  fashion — that  tinhappy  conse 
quence  of  Eve's  endeavor  to  make  herself  look  a  little  more 
becoming.  One  loves  to  loiter  around,  drinking  in  the  de 
light  placidly.  It  is  stilly,  very  stilly,  at  night  ;  and  then, 
if  perchance  you  pace  the  piazza  with  some  pensive  maid, 
or  wander  as  far  as  the  white  temple  of  Hygeia,  standing- 
silent  and  beautiful  in  the  moonlight,  ten  chances  to  one, 
you  will  ask  her  a  momentous  question,  and  the  chances 
are  about  even  she  will  whisper  "  Yes" — if  she  love  you. 

One  afternoon,  the  cars  sailed  into  the  depot,  and  soon 
after  a  few  travellers  came  through  the  broad  gate  at  the 
end  of  the  lawn.  There  were  three  ladies  and  a  little  boy. 
The  young  lady  (for  the  others  represented  mother  and 
aunt)  carried  a  shawl  upon  her  arm,  and  a  little  Indian 


ORANGE    BLOSSOMS.  63 

basket  by*  the  handle,  in  the  most  graceful  way  possible  ; 
I  observed,  also,  she  had  a  pair  of  full,  dark  eyes,  radiant 
with  lashes  ;  and  a  dimple  that  played  upon  her  cheek  like 
a  sunbeam  upon  the  water. 

There  was  something  too,  honest,  open,  and  frank  in 
her  face,  which  you  understood  at  once.  It  was  at  the 
same  time  pleasing,  good-humored,  and  independent — I 
will  not  say  how  handsome. 

When  the  dinner  bell  sounded,  and  I  took  my  usual  seat 
at  the  table,  there  were  four  chairs  turned  down  opposite, 
and  what  I  hoped,  came  to  pass — my  vis-d-vis  was  the 
young  lady  with  the  dimple.  All  I  remember  of  her  dress 
was  a  very  graceful  line  that,  sweeping  a  little  below  her 
white  neck,  curved  from  one  polished  shoulder  to  the  other, 
and  in  the  centre  of  the  wave  was  a  large,  a  very  large; 
aqua-marine  breastpin,  holding  three  little  rosebuds,  two 
white,  and  one  pale  red.  Spite  of  all  I  could  do,  the  aqua 
marine  breastpin  and  the  three  little  rosebuds  attracted 
my  attention  so  much,  I  was  afraid  of  giving  offence  by 
looking  so  often  that  way,  when  I  heard  the  small  boy  ask 
his  Ma  for  some  champaigne.  This  indication  of  early 
viciousness  not  being  gratified  by  Mamma,  he  repeated  his 
request  so  often  that,  finding  he  was  already  a  spoiled 
chicken,  by  way  of  diverting  my  thoughts  from  rosebuds 


64  ORANGE    BLOSSOMS. 

and  dimples,  I  whispered  Andrew  Jackson,  who  was  busy 
with  the  crumb-brush,  to  take  nay  wine  and  fill  the  young 
gentleman's  glass  quietly,  when  nobody  was  looking.  This 
feat  being  performed  rather  adroitly,  occasioned  some  sur 
prise  to  Master  Tom,  when  he  looked  around.  .  "  Where 
did  this  come  from  ?  "  he  asked,  with  eyes  wide  open. 

"  I  believe  "  said  his  sister,  "  you  are  indebted  to  the 
gentleman  opposite  ; "  and  then,  with  a  degree  of  surpass 
ing  grace,  she  raised  the  glass,  bowed  slightly  to  me,  and 
touched  it  with  her  lips. 

Where  the  conversation  began,  and  where  it  ended,  I 
do  not  now  remember.  Master  Tom  was  instrumental  in 
bringing  it  on — then  Mamma  followed — and  lastly,  it  was 
made  bewitching  by  dimples  and  rosebuds.  Saratoga,  Ni 
agara,  and  Trenton  were  the  themes  ;  the  odorous  breath 
of  June  breathed  through  the  window  blinds,  and  at  last, 
with  my  heart  full  of  happiness,  and  my  lap  full  of  lint, 
I  rose  and  bowed  to  the  departing  ladies. 

"  You  will  go  to  Niagara,  then,  early  in  the  morning  ?  " 

I  bowed  again. 

"  I  hope  you  will  have  as  pleasant  a  journey  as  we  have 
had  ; "  the  dimple  played  a  moment  in  the  cheek — and  I 
was  left  solus. 

I  had  promised  myself  a  ride  to  the  lake  after  dinner  ; 


ORANGE    BLOSSOMS.  65 

the  horse  was  waiting  at  the  door — and  in  another  moment 
he  was  cantering  with  me  down  the  broad  avenue  toward 
the  spring.  A  little,  black,  petulant  barb — prancing  and 
dancing  sideways,  wrangling  with  the  bit — in  all  respects 
in  as  good  spirits  as  I  was,  on  that  happy  afternoon.  When 
we  came  back  in  the  twilight,  and  turned  the  street  at  the 
side  of  the  hotel,  I  happened  to  look  up,  and  there,  resting 
her  head  upon  her  hand,  with  a  book — in  a  room  which  was 
nearly  opposite  to  mine — was  the  fair  rosebud  wearer.  At  the 
same  moment  my  wicked  little  barb  swerved  aside  at  some 
thing,  brought  me  with  a  crash  against  an  awning  post  op 
posite,  and  started  up  the  street  toward  the  stable,  on  a 
run.  I  believe,  if  it  had  not  been  for  that  friendly  act  of 
pinning  me  against  the  post,  I  would  have  been  unseated. 
I  looked  again  toward  the  window  as  I  limped  across 
the  street,  and  caught  one  more  glance,  which  was  the 
last. 

After  I  had  packed  my  trunk  in  the  evening,  for  my 
early  journey  next  day,  I  pulled  it  near  the  door,  which  I 
left  ajar  to  air  the  room,  for  the  weather  was  warm. 
When  I  returned,  rather  late  in  the  evening,  I  found  lying 
upon  it,  a  souvenir  ;  there,  as  if  they  had  been  quickly  and 
carelessly  dropped,  were  three  little  rosebuds — two  white, 
and  one  pale  red  ! 


66  ORANGE    RLOSS03IS. 

I  do  not  think  I  dreamed  that  night,  of  Fanny 
Hazleton. 

Trenton,  with  its  gorgeous  waterfalls  ;  its  lofty  but 
tresses  and  wide  arcades  of  natural  masonry  ;  its  shadowed 
lapses  of  waters,  here  spreading  placidly  from  Avail  to  wall, 
there,  washing  broad  levels  of  stone  even  and  wide  enough 
for  a  multitude  of  carriages  ;  anon,  gathering  into  a  black 
volume,  deep,  swift,  and  terrible  as  death ;  and  then, 
springing  from  the  sharp  brink  into  the  light,  with  its  fall 
ing  tide  of  amber  and  sparkling  crystal,  induced  me  to 
linger  long  and  lovingly. 

How  often,  after  nightfall,  did  I  descend  the  steep 
staircase,  alone — for  the  grandeur  of  Trenton  is  felt  most 
at  night — and  looking  up  beyond  the  enormous  walls,  hid 
in  deep  shadow,  behold  the  blue  woof  of  the  sky,  and  the 
mysterious  stars  gazing  down  into  the  abyss.  Then  are 
the  voices  of  the  waters  most  audible  ;  even  at  a  distance, 
amid  the  shrill  and  ceaseless  chirp  of  the  cicadas  in  the 
trees,  amid  the  whispering  echoes,  and  the  rustling  leaves, 
blending  and  deepening  ;  with  all,  and  above  all,  rises  the 
melancholy  anthem  ;  the  solemn  doom-tones  of  Trenton  ! 

And  in  that  solitude  my  thoughts  turned  ever  home 
ward,  and  my  thoughts  were  of  Kowley,  and  Fanny 
Hazleton. 


ORANGE    BLOSSOMS.  67 

In  past  years,  it  was  a  day  and  night's  journey  from 
Albany  to  Buffalo  ;  passengers  were  apt  to  loiter  in  the 
towns  by  the  way.  An  old  gentleman  who  was  in  the  cars, 
stopped,  as  I  did,  for  a  day,  at  Syracuse  ;  we  fell  into  con 
versation  :  he  intended  to  stay  a  day  or  so  at  Kochester. 
That  was  my  intention  also.  "And  Buffalo  as  well?" 
"  Yes."  We  agreed  to  travel  together. 

I  do  not  know  if  travelling  be  apt  to  make  one  more 
observing  than  usual,  or  whether  the  mind,  absolved  from 
its  daily  cares,  interests  itself  in  surrounding  objects  for 
want  of  its  customary  employment.  Certain  it  is,  as  we 
journeyed  on,  I  was  more  attracted  by  seeing  a  white  hand 
holding  a  book  in  front  of  me,  than  I  ever  had  been  before 
by  a  like  object,  though  Fanny  Hazleton's  was  as  white  as 
it,  or  any  other.  The  white  hand  raised  the  car  window 
sometimes,  but  the  car  window  would  slide  down  again. 
So,  as  the  white  hand  did  not  apply  the  remedy,  that  is, 
the  loop,  to  keep  the  vexatious  window  in  its  place,  an 
other  hand,  less  white,  looped  it  up  to  save  trouble.  "  I 
was  just  going  to  do  that  myself,"  whispered  my  elderly 
companion. 

If  the  glimpses  I  caught  of  the  white  hand  while  in 
action  were  agreeable,  when  the  book  was  laid  aside,  and  it 
reposed  upon  the  back  of  the  car  seat,  within  reach,  it  was 


68  ORANGE    BLOSSOMS. 

absolutely  absorbing.  It  was  white  as  a  blanched  almond, 
and  as  round.  The  fingers  melted  into  sunset  at  the  tips. 
I  felt  as  if  I  could  snatch  it  up  and  run  off  with  it.  I 
forgot  all  about  Fanny  Hazleton,  the  dimple,  and  the  three 
rosebuds.  I  was  haunted  of  a  white  hand.  And  I  saw  my 
elderly  companion  glistening  at  it  through  his  spectacles. 
At  last  it  moved  slightly,  then  adjusted  a  pretty  French  bon 
net,  and  a  round,  auburn  ringlet,  like  burnt  gold,  fell  down- 
and  danced  upon  her  shoulder. 'Patter  !  patter  !  rain  against 
the  panes  !  The  white  hand  undid  the  loop,  and  then  it  lay 
in  her  lap.  My  elderly  companion  leaned  forward  a  little 
— probably  to  see  how  it  looked  beside  the  other  one. 

G-enesee  Falls  is  a  pleasant  divertisement  between  the 
larger  dramas  of  Trenton  and  Niagara.  Amid  these 
grander  outlines,  any  work  of  man,  any  thing  but  primitive 
nature,  would  be  strikingly  incongruous,  but  I  am  not  sure 

the  white  torrents  from  numberless  mill-flumes  around  the 

• 

falls  of  the  Genesee  do  not  enhance  its  beauty.  But  the 
lower  falls,  unshackled  by  machinery,  are  dreamy  and  de 
licious  ;  and  as  I  plucked  a  wild  flower  from  the  cliff,  I 
thought  again  of  home  and  Fanny  Hazleton. 

I  was  seated  on  the  porch  of  the  hotel,  in  the  cool  eve 
ning,  with  my 'friend,  when  a  carriage  stopped  before  it, 
and  a  gentleman  alighting  therefrom,  handed  out  three 


ORANGE    BLOSSOMS.  69 

ladies.  The  last  appeared  to  be  slightly  lame.  The  hand 
which  rested  rather  heavily  for  assistance  upon  the.  arm  of 
the  gentleman,  was  that  which  has  been  slightly  alluded  to. 
"  I  shall  want  you  in  the  morning  to  take  us  to  the  cars/' 
said  the  gentleman  to  the  coachman. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  inquired  my  elderly  friend  of 
the  driver,  after  the  party  had  gone  in. 

"  Sprained  her  ankle  !  "  promptly  responded  the  man. 

Now,  a  beautiful  woman,  meeting  with  an  accident,  is 
always  sure  to  awaken  the  tenderest  solicitude  of  benevolent 
old  gentlemen.  My  companion  was  not  an  exception  to  this 
peculiarity.  He  did  inquire,  and  very  anxiousjy  too,  of  the 
gentleman  who  escorted  the  ladies,  whom  he  met  in  the 
course  of  the  evening,  as  to  the  extent  of  the  disaster. 
Fortunately,  it  was  not  a  serious  matter. 

Three  lovelier  women  never  travelled  together  since  the 
invention  of  railroads,  than  those  who  were  seated  next 
morning  in  the  cars,  on  their  way  to  Buffalo. 

The  smallest  one  of  the  group  was  married  ;  her  compan 
ions  were  single.  Such  sweetly-brilliant  eyes  as  the  first 
turned  upon  her  husband,  who  sat  by  her  side  ;  and  then 
the  others — tall,  and  moulded  with  all  of  nature's  cunning, 
—each  setting  off  each — such  dark  lustres  beamed  beneath 
the  long  lashes  of  the  Brunette  !  Such  tender  witchery 


70  ORANGE    BLOSSOMS. 

was  half  hidden  in  the  full  hazels  of  the  Blonde  !  and  in 
the  lap  of  the  latter,  buried  in  the  soft  folds  of  a  cambric 
kerchief,  was  the  Jiand,  ungloved  ;  like  a  large  blanched 
almond  ;  and  beside  another  as  white. 

We  arrived  at  Buffalo  in  the  evening,  and  beheld  the 
thin  sickle  of  the  new  moon  uprising  from  the  broad  ex 
panse  of  Lake  Erie.  Next  morning,  at  half-past  eight, 
when  we  took  the  cars  for  the  Falls,  the  white  hand  was 
leaning  upon  the  arm  of  the  gentleman  as  seen  aforetime. 
How  I  wished  it  had  been  my  arm  !  We  move  off ;  objects 
of  interest  begin  to  multiply ;  Black  Rock,  and  opposite 
the  remains  of  Fort  Erie,  famous  for  the  sortie  in  the  last 
war.  White-hand  points  to  the  place.  Tonawanda  and 
Grand  Island,  which  once  promised  to  be  the  new  Canaan 
of  the  Israelites.  Then  through  the  forest,  and  emerging, 
we  come  again  upon  the  river,  and  old  Fort  Schlosser,  and 
the  scene  of  the  burning  of  the  Caroline.  "  Durfee  was 
shot  near  where  the  post  stands/'  says  the  conductor. 
White-hand  points  it  out.  Now  we  see  Navy  Island,  and 
the  white  caps  uplift  their  crests  above  the  rapids.  Nearer 
and  nearer  we  come — house  after  house  glides  in  view — the 
cars  stop. 

Where  is  Niagara  ? 

I  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  at  the  Falls,  and  when  I 


ORANGE    BLOSSOMS.  7"  1 

returned  in  the  evening,  found  my  travelling  companion 
quietly  smoking,  and  in  conversation  with  the  gentleman 
upon  whose  arm  had  rested  the  white  hand. 

I  believe  young  men  once  were  more  modest  than  they 
are  in  these  degenerate  times.  Certain  it  is,  I  had  rather 
avoided  than  sought  the  acquaintance  of  the  gentleman  to 
whom  I  was  now  introduced.  Not  but  what  I  desired  it. 
But  the  very  idea  of  being  intrusive  there,  made  me  shrink 
and  blush  with  shame. 

"  You  have  been  studying  the  Falls,  I  presume  ?  "  said 
the  gentleman,  who  was  a  Virginian,  as  I  soon  after  dis 
covered;  "we  missed  you  at  dinner.  Would  you  have 
any  objection  to  make  one  of  our  party  ?  We  propose  to 
pay  a  first  visit  early  in  the  morning/' 

Of  course  I  had  no  objection,  and  frankly  told  him  so. 

"  We  would  like  to  start  at  five  o'clock/' 

I  bowed. 

Then  we  discoursed  of  other  matters  until  bed-time, 
when  I  fell  asleep,  full  of  happy  dreams  of  the  morrow. 

To  tell  of  that  early  ride  in  the  leafy  month  of  June, 
around  Goat  Island  ;  how  we  ascended  the  Tower,  and 
descended  the  Biddle  staircase  ;  how  fearlessly  those  beau 
tiful  ladies  ran  out  to  the  very  end  of  the  Terrapin  bridge  ; 
how,  after  breakfast,  we  visited  the  Church  of  the  Tusca- 


72  ORANGE    BLOSSOMS. 

rora  Indians  (for  it  was  Sunday),  and  saw  the  old  squaws 
come  in  barefooted,  fold  themselves  in  their  blankets,  and 
go  to  sleep  just  like  any  other  Christians  ;  how  we  looked 
down  at  the  whirlpool,  and  saw  the  place  where  a  soldier 
had  leaped  two  hundred  feet  into  the  trees  below,  and  was 
not  killed  ;  how  we  crossed  to  the  Canada  side,  and  went 
on  Table  Eock,  and  under  the  Horse-shoe  fall ;  how  we 
saw  the  gray  cloud  form  from  the  mist,  and  slowly  sailing 
aloft,  catch  at  last  the  beautiful  tints  of  morning  upon  its 
shoulders ;  how  we  visited  Lundy's  Lane,  and  Chippewa, 
and  the  clever  reply  of  the  Irish  driver,  who,  when  he  was 
asked  the  question  whether  the  Americans  or  the  British 
were  successful  at  Lundy's  Lane,  answered,  as  he  glanced 
around  the  car,  in  which  were  some  of  Her  Majesty's  offi 
cers,  "  there  niver  was  such  a  fight  since  the  beginning  of 
the  wurrld,  but  I  belave  they  were  about  aquil !  "  I  say, 
to  repeat  all  this  would  probably  be  less  interesting  to  the 
reader  than  it  was  to  me.  But  the  white  hand  did  some 
times  rest  upon  my  arm,  nor  was  the  mind  of  the  fair  Vir 
ginian  less  lovely  than  her  outward  adornments.  So 
passed  the  happy  days  and  evenings  beside  the  Thunder- 
Water. 

Fanny  Hazleton  faded  into  the  remote.     Bridal  veils 
and  orange  blossoms  interrupted  my  fancies — but  they  were 


ORANGE    BLOSSOMS.  73 

associated  with  scenes  in  which  I  appeared  merely  as  a 
spectator.  I  thought  of  a  white  hand,  given  lovingly  and 
confidingly  to  another.  I  saw  the  ring  glitter  between  the 
beautiful  fingers.  I  pictured  to  myself  some  unworthy 
representative  of  manhood,  winning  a  prize  whose  priceless 
value  he  could  neither  understand  nor  appreciate.  As  the 
day  of  departure  drew  near,  I  felt  sadder  and  sadder.  It 
came  at  last.  The  stage  for  Lewiston  was  at  the  door.  I 
simply  bowed  farewell  to  the  ladies,  with  as  much  calmness 
as  I  could  muster.  But  the  fair  Virginian  rose  and  said, 
"  I  must  shake  hands  with  you,  and  say  how  much  I  am 
obliged  to  you  for  your  kindness."  Then — for  the  first- 
time — did  I  touch  that  beautiful  hand  ;  and  then,  with  a 
heart  as  heavy  as  lead,  I  climbed  into  the  stage,  and  was 
soon  rolling  over  the  long  and  weary  path  that  led  towards 
home. 

There  is  one  cure  for  sadness  ;  a  prescription,  infallible 
for  all  but  the  poverty-stricken.  If  you  are  in  comfortable 
circumstances,  and  withal  dissatisfied  with  your  lot — go 
among  the  poor.  If  you  are  neglected  by  those  whose 
society  you  covet,  or  your  aspirations  are  beset  with  disap 
pointments — go  among  the  poor.  If  your  strivings  to  be 
better  only  make  you  a  mark  for  vulgar  natures,  if  detrac 
tion,  envy,  and  malice  induce  you  to  fancy  life  a  burthen, 


74  ORANGE    BLOSSOMS. 

.still — go  among  the  poor.  See  what  misery  is — before  you 
yourself  claim  to  be  miserable.  Abandon  fruitless  sympa 
thies,  confined  only  to  one,  and  plant  them  where  they  are 
most  needed.  My  life  for  it,  you  will  be  wiser,  nobler, 
happier.  See  what  wretchedness  really  is,  before  you  con 
sider  existence  as  a  disease,  which,  but  for  the  future, 
would  be  happily  alleviated  by  the  pistol  or  the  knife.  See 
if  you  can  come  from  the  abodes  of  helpless  indigence,  and 
repeat,  "  I  have  nothing  to  live  for."  And  even  if  you 
nourish  a  hopeless  passion,  if  fortune,  or  position  inter 
pose,  or  if  the  one  you  love  love  not  you,  still  I  repeat — go 
among  the  poor !  The  visit  will  give  you  strength  and 
consolation ;  if  you  are  rich  in  love,  behold  the  means  of 
employing  it  where  the  returns  will  be  still  richer. 

This  philosophy  was  the  result  of  my  visit  to  Niagara. 
And  now  to  Rowley  and  Fanny  Hazleton. 

That  my  cousin  was  very  much  admired  by  the  young 
ladies  was  unquestionably  true.  His  handsome  face  and 
figure  might  have  inspired  a  passion,  even  had  he  not  been 
possessed  of  better  attributes.  But  with  enough  to  make 
almost  any  one  vain,  I  never  detected  that  element  in 
Rowley's  composition.  If  he  chatted  familiarly  with  the 
pretty  girls  around  him,  it  was  because  he  enjoyed  their 
society,  and  his  honest,  manly,  straightforward  nature 


ORANGE    BLOSSOMS.  75 

never  suspected  any  harm  in  that,  or  believed  it  could 
awaken  envy  in  others.  But  Fanny  Hazleton  was  rarely 
found  in  this  merry  circle  ;  in  fact,  she  kept  aloof  from  my 
cousin,  and  much  as  he  loved  her,  what  with  her  refusing 
to  dance,  sometimes  for  a  whole  evening,  and  what  with 
those  engagements  he  felt  bound  to  make  with  others,  for 
fear  of  giving  offence,  there  was  very  little  show  of  atten 
tion  to  her  on  his  part ;  and  if  Fanny  had  a  secret  par 
tiality  for  him,  no  one  had  been  shrewd  enough  to  discover 
it.  I  must  say,  I  preferred  her  society  to  that  of  any  of  the 
rest ;  she  was  so  noble,  sensible,  and  womanly  ;  there  was 
so  much  in  confidence  between  us,  and  so  often  was  I  be 
side  her  at  these  little  evening  parties,  that  people  some 
times  hinted,  "  that  Fanny  and  a  certain  person,  one  of 
these  days,  would  be  sending  around  cards,  and  bride's 
cake." 

But  Kowley  knew  better  than  that ;  and  Fanny  only 
laughed  at  the  story,  and  told  it  to  me. 

My  cousin's  passion  for  Fanny  was  very  much  like  the 
attraction  of  the  planetary  bodies  ;  it  revolved  around,  but 
never  approached  its  object.  To  procrastinate  the  momen 
tous  question,  to  live  suspended,  like  Mahomet's  coffin, 
between  heaven  and  earth,  is  a  part  of  the  history  of  every 
one  who  loves.  Eowley  put  it  off  from  time  to  time  ;  but 


76  ORANGE   BLOSSOMS. 

the  arrival  of  a  gentleman  in  the  Havre  packet  brought 
the  affair  to  such  a  critical  pass  that  my  cousin  had  to 
speak, — but  we  will  come  to  that  by  and  by. 

Two  young  ladies,  who  figured  occasionally  at  our  cote 
ries,  had  a  brother,  younger  than  themselves,  whose  absence 
in  Europe  had  been  the  constant  theme  and  staple  of  their 
conversation,  at  all  times,  and  in  all  places.  First,  we 
were  given  to  understand,  he  was  brimful  of  talent,  and 
immensely  literary  ;  then,  he  had  been  bearer  of  dispatches 
out,  and  his  services  would  probably  be  required  by  the 
government  for  something  else  as  soon  as  he  got  back. 
The  accounts  of  his  scholarship,  by  the  Misses  Bullwinkle 
(his  sisters),  threw  a  shadow  upon  the  fame  of  Erasmus  ; 
and  the  fire  of  his  poetry  was  at  least  equal  to  Lord  By 
ron's,  if  not  superior.  Then  he  had  the  kindest  heart  for 
every  body,  he  was  so  good,  so  charitable  ;  one  sewing  so 
ciety  had  absolutely  given  up  its  meetings  until  his  return  ; 
besides,  he  could  fence  in  a  superior  manner  ;  in  fact,  so 
fond  was  he  of  that  pastime,  he  actually  taught  Miss  Bull- 
winkle  the  elder  to  handle  the  foils,  that  he  might  keep 
himself  in  practice  ;  and — in  making  a  pun  !  "  Oh,"  said 
the  sisters  in  a  breath,  "  if  you  could  hear  him  make  a 
pun,  you  would  laugh  fit  to  kill  yourself !  " 

Of  course  the  arrival  of  such  a  prodigy  caused  no  little 


ORANGE   BLOSSOMS.  77 

flutter.  We  were  invited  to  Fanny  Hazleton's  on  Friday 
night,  and  every  body  went  to  meet  Mr.  William  Bull- 
winkle. 

I  had  been  visiting  a  patient  that  evening,  and  did  not 
reach  Mrs.  Hazleton's  until  late.  When  I  entered  the 
rooms,  I  was  promptly  carried  forward,  and  introduced  to 
the  man  of  genius  without  delay.  He  was  the  centre  of 
an  admiring  circle,  and  no  doubt  had  just  uttered  some 
thing  oracular,  for  his  hands  were  clasped  together,  and  he 
was  peering  around  in  the  faces  of  his  audience,  as  if  he 
would  say, — that's  so — isn't  it  ?  "  He  had  a  shining,  bul 
bous  forehead,  rather  scantily  thatched  with  blades  of  hair ; 
his  face,  small,  meagre,  and  yet  vulgar,  was  adorned  with 
a  pair  of  short,  rusty  whiskers,  and  a  rag  of  a  moustache  ; 
in  all  respects  not  what  one  would  call  a  face  eminently 
prepossessing.  As  for  his  figure,  it  was  evidently  made 
up.  But  in  the  rapid  glance  embracing  all  this,  I  had 
taken  in  another  person,  whose  attitude  and  expression  put 
me  at  my  wit's  end.  It  was  Fanny  Hazleton.  So  ab 
sorbed  was  she  with  her  guest  at  the  moment,  she  scarcely 
noticed  me.  She  seemed  to  hang  upon  his  words  as  if  their 
lingering  sweetness  still  pervaded  the  atmosphere.  I  looked 
around  for  Eowley.  Pale  and  silent,  my  cousin  was  alone 
in  a  corner,  playing  with  the  tassels  of  the  sofa  cushion. 


78  ORANGE   BLOSSOMS. 

"  Thus  the  struck  deer  in  some  sequestered  part, 
Lies  down  to  die,  the  arrow  in  his  heart.'1 

"  Why  Kowley  !   what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"Nothing  at  all,"  answered  my  cousin,  "I  do  not  feel 
very  well." 

If  Mr.  William  Bullwinkle's  reputation  had  not  already 
preceded  him,  that  evening  would  have  established  it.  He 
had  been  every  where,  seen  every  thing,  and  met  even- 
body.  He  brought  meerschaums  and  metaphysics  from 
Germany  ;  the  graces  and  a  correct  pronunciation  from 
Paris  ;  a  consummate  knowledge  of  art  from  Italy  ;  besides 
an  accordion,  and  a  watch,  not  larger  than  a  Lima  bean, 
from  Geneva  on  Lake  Leman. 

"  My  intercourse  with  the  aristocracy  of  England  never 
allowed  me  to  breathe  there,  what  I  am  now  about  to  tell 
you  in  confidence,"  said  Mr.  William  Bullwinkle,  pulling  his 
rag  of  a  moustache  over  his  under  lip  ;  but  when  I  was 
presented  to  the  Queen,  my  keen  eye  of  observance  de 
tected  a  slight  tremor  in  Her  Majesty,  and  when  I  kissed 
her  hand  I  am  certain  it  trembled  a  little.  I  also  caught 
her  eye  afterwards,  at  the  opera,  which  she  withdrew  at 
once  ;  I  am  sure  of  this,  for  I  saw  it  plain  as  day,  through 
my  lorgnette.  But  not  wishing,  as  an  American,  to  be 
mixed  up  with  any  scandal  of  the  court,"  he  added,  drum 
ming  upon  his  cheek  with  his  fingers,  "  I  took  leave  of  the 


ORANGE    BLOSSOMS.  7l) 

white  cliiFs  of  Albion  sooner  than  perhaps  I  otherwise  might 
have  desired/' 

The  expression  upon  my  cousin's  face,  while  Mr.  Bull- 
winkle  delivered  himself  in  this  gay  and  festive  manner, 
was  absolutely  fiendish. 

Not  so  with  Fanny  Hazleton.  During  the  rest  of  the 
evening,  she  kept  close  by  the  side  of  her  guest,  and  at 
parting,  when  the  sisters  Bullwinkle  helped  their  brother  on 
with  his  coat,  and  tied  the  worsted  around  his  neck,  her 
fair  fingers,  as  if  emulous  of  the  duty,  re-tied  it,  to  keep 
him  comfortable. 

"  How  did  you  like  Mr.  Bullwinkle  ?  "  said  I  to  Kow~ 
ley,  as  we  walked  towards  the  office. 

"  He's  a  perfect  jackass  ! "  answered  my  cousin  with  a 
burst  of  indignation. 

"  Did  you  hear  him  make  a  pun  ?  " 

"  Oh  ! him,  yes  ;  half  a  dozen." 

"  Any  of  'em  good  ?  " 

"  Good  ? — immense  !  "  this  was  uttered  in  a  tone  in 
tended  to  be  cool  and  sarcastic  in  the  highest  degree. 

"  What  of  his  literary  ability  ?  " 

"  Chaff  !  chaff  !  a  literary  chiffonier,  who  hooks  out  of 
the  mire  decayed  scraps  of  learning,  and  thinks  them  won 
derfully  fine  in  the  new  gloss  he  puts  upon  them." 

"  He  has  written  a  great  deal." 


80  ORANGE    BLOSSOMS. 

'  Yes,  no  doubt ;  his  fecundity  is  astonishing  ;  I 
should  call  him  a  literary  rabbit."  This  was  terribly 
bitter. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Rowley  ?  " 

"Nothing  at  all." 

"  They  say  he  fences  beautifully." 

"/  would  like  to  trifJiim  witli  a  small-sword." 

If  Fanny  Hazleton's  conduct  surprised  me  on  that 
Friday  evening,  what  did  I  think  of  it  when  a  few  weeks 
had  rolled  by,  and  her  acquaintance  with  the  ci-devant 
Bearer  of  Dispatches  became  strengthened  by  time  ?  At 
every  evening  party,  Mr.  Bullwinkle  was  her  escort ;  if  she 
danced  at  all,  which  she  did  but  rarely,  Mr.  Bullwinkle 
was  her  partner  ;  if  she  went  to  a  concert  or  the  theatre, 
there  was  Mr.  Bullwinkle  as  well.  Meantime,  Rowley, 
instead  of  being  the  gay,  good-humored  cavalier,  the  life 
and  soul  of  the  social  circle,  he  used  to  be  in  old  times, 
was  now  downcast  and  spiritless ;  following  Fanny  with 
his  eyes  every  where,  yet  scarcely  venturing  to  address  her 
at  all ;  a  shadow  of  his  former  self ;  no  longer  an  object 
of  adulation,  but  the  subject  of  pity,  or  ridicule,  or  both. 
This  will  never  do,  my  cousin  ! 

Rowley's  mother  at  this  time  issued  cards  of  in vitation 
for  a  small  party,  to  be  given  in  honor  of  her  niece  Isabel 


ORANGE    BLOSSOMS.  81 

Bassett,  who  had  just  arrived  from  Baltimore.  Bell  Bas- 
sett  was  a  sprightly,  amiable  girl  of  about  twenty  ;  exceed 
ingly  pretty  withal,  and  as  witty  and  quick  as  she  was 
good-natured.  She  was  engaged  to  a  gentleman  of  her 
native  city,  but  this  was  a  secret  known  only  in  the  family. 
We  had  been  very  good  friends,  and  soon  after  her  arrival 
I  made  her  acquainted  with  the  unfortunate  position  aof  my 
cousin's  affairs.  The  result  was,  after  several  consultations, 
a  plot,  the  success  of  which  mainly  depended  upon  my  cou 
sin  Kowley. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  said  I  to  him  one  day,  "  that 
scene  in  Cooper's  novel,  where  the  prairie  is  on  fire,  and  the 
means  by  which  the  old  trapper,  Leather  Stocking,  saves 
himself  and  his  companions  from  the  terrible  fate  which 
threatens  them  ?  " 

"  Yes," — my  cousin  paid  little  attention  to  what  I  was 
saying. 

"  Do  you  remember  what  Leather  Stocking  says  on  that 
occasion  ?  " 

"No." 

"  We  must  make  fire  fight  fire  ! " 

"Well,  what  then?" 

"  Fanny  Hazleton— " 

"Well." 
4* 


82  ORANGE    BLOSSOMS. 

"  Pretends  to  like  Mr.  Bullwinkle." 

"  More  than  pretence,  I  fancy/' 

"  We  shall  see." 

"How?" 

"  You  must  fall  in  love  with  Bell  Bassett. 

"  Nonsense." 

Ck  And  Bell  is  already  prepared  to  be  dreadfully  in  love 
with  you." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?" 

"  Something  that  concerns  you.  Listen.  Fanny  Hazle- 
ton  either  does,  or  does  not,  love  this  literary  chiffonier. 
If  she  do  not,  then  you  may  yet  win  her  ;  but  if  you  were 
to  propose  at  the  present  time  you  would  only  be  certain 
of  one  thing  —  " 

"A  refusal!" 

"Prompt.  If  you  gain  her,  it  will  not  be  by  coming- 
like  an  abject,  now.  She  has  too  much  spirit  herself  to 
overlook  the  want  of  it  in  you.  You  must  stand  with  her 
on  level  ground.  You  must  once  more  become  gay,  light- 
hearted,  cheerful.  You  must  convince  her  that  such  a 
thing  as  this  Mr.  Bullwinkle  could  not,  by  any  possibility, 
give  you  an  uneasy  thought,  where  she  is  concerned.  If 
her  apparent  liking  for  him  be  serious,  it  is  enough  to 
awaken  all  your  pride  and  contempt.  Do  you  think  him 
more  worthv  of  her  than  vourself  ?  " 


ORANGE    BLOSSOMS.  83 

"  I  do  not  think  him  capable  of  feeling  as  I  do  towards 


"  A  man  made  up  of  pretence  —  " 

"  And  meanness  —  " 

"  Spoiled  by  those  foolish  sisters  —  " 

"  A  milk-sop." 

"  Who  knows  as  much  about  poetry  as  a  cat  does  of 
astronomy  —  " 

"  The  jackass." 

"  Not  a  thing  that  is  genuine  about  him  —  " 

"  Except  his  conceit." 

"  And  he  to  aspire  to  Fanny  Hazleton  ?  No,  no,  Bow- 
ley,  I  do  not,  cannot  believe  she  entertains  a  thought  of 
ever  having  such  a  man.  Come  now,  do  you  believe 
it?" 

"  I  do  not  know  what  to  believe." 

"  Then  we  must  find  out  what  to  believe.  We  must 
get  at  the  true  state  of  the  case.  Put  yourself  in  my  hands 
—  show  every  attention  to  Bell  Bassett  —  treat  Fanny  po 
litely,  very  politely,  but  as  if  her  actions  did  not  weigh 
upon  your  heart  a  feather.  Then  we  will  soon  find  out 
what  is  best  to  be  done." 

"  Impossible.     I  cannot  be  guilty  of  duplicity." 

"  Do  not  make  up  your  mind  too  hastily." 

"  I  am  resolved." 


84  ORANGE   BLOSSOMS. 

And  so  ended  my  conference  with  Rowley. 

The  party  came  off  in  due  time,  and  there  was  Fanny, 
accompanied  by  Mr.  Bullwinkle,  whom  she  had  asked  to 
wait  upon  her.  This  was  rather  unexpected,  as  the  fami 
lies  did  not  visit.  Rowley  was  pale  with  anger,  his  eyes 
sparkled  with  indignation  for  an  instant,  and  then  he  was 
perfectly  cool  and  self-possessed.  He  never  appeared  so 
well  as  he  did  then,  so  graceful  and  dignified.  I  saw 
Fanny  once  or  twice  looking  at  him  quite  intently.  But 
the  chief  object  of  interest  that  evening  was  cousin  Bell. 
She  was  one  of  those  miraculous  creatures  who  seem  to 
possess  the  power  of  creating  as  many  charms  as  the  occa 
sion  may  require.  This  evening  she  was  bewitching. 
Fanny  Hazleton  was  completely  eclipsed.  Rowley  had 
given  Bell  a  little  locket  which  she  wore  in  her  belt,  and 
took  good  care  to  whisper  one  or  two,  that  it  was  the  gift 
of  her  cousin.  Then  she  was  by  his  side  whenever  an  op 
portunity  presented  itself ;  she  petted  him  ;  got  him  inter 
ested  in  old  stories  of  the  times  when  they  were  children  ; 
followed  him  with  her  eyes  wherever  he  went ;  sat  down 
disconsolate  when  he  danced  with  any  other  person  ;  in 
fact,  acted  with  such  consummate  skill,  it  created  just 
what  she  wanted — and  that  was — a  great  deal  of  sur 
mise. 


ORANGE    BLOSSOMS.  85 

Bell  sang  very  prettily  ;  her  voice  was  of  that  sympa 
thetic  kind,  more  admirable  and  rare,  than  those  whose 
chief  excellence  consists  in  having  a  good  natural  organ 
skilfully  cultivated.  She  had  just  finished  a  little  Italian 
air  when  I  overheard  Mr.  Bullwinkle  observe,  in  his  face 
tious  way — 

"  Oh,  very  good,  very  good.  I  suppose  she  sings  in 
Eyetalion  because  she's  afraid  to  trust  herself  with  the 
English.  It  is  better  to  run  the  risk  of  mispronouncing  a 
language  we  don't  understand,  than  to  take  that  risk  with 
a  language  we  do." 

If  my  thoughts  were  at  all  translated  by  the  look  I  gave 
Mr.  Bullwinkle,  when  I  heard  this  specimen  of  his  wit,  I 
am  sure  he  could  not  have  felt  much  complimented.  He 
laughed,  however,  in  a  very  silly  way,  and  took  no  notice 
of  it.  As  for  Fanny,  she  blushed  deep  scarlet. 

It  was  now  Kowley's  turn  to  sing,  for  Bell  would 
take  no  denial ;  so  he  began  that  famous  old  song,  by 


George  Wither : 


"  Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair, 
Die  because  another's  fair  ? 
Or  my  cheeks  look  pale  with  care 
Because  another's  rosy  are  ? 
Be  she  fairer  than  the  day, 
Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May ; 


86  ORANGE    BLOSSOMS. 

If  she  be  not  BO  to  me, 

What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  ? " 

Fanny's  eyes  rested  on  her  lap — the  blush  deepened. 

"  Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 

Me  to  perish  for  her  love  ? 

Or,  her  well-deservings  known, 

Make  me  to  forget  my  own  ? 

Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest, 

Which  may  merit  name  of  'best ;' 
If  she  be  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be  ? " 

The  bouquet  in  Fanny's  hand  trembled  as  if  a  little  wind 
stirred  the  flowers. 

"  Great,  or  good,  or  kind,  or  fair, 
I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair ; 
If  she  love  me,  this  believe 
I  will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve. 
If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo, 
I  will  scorn  and  let  her  go ; 
If  she  be  not  fit  for  me, 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be  ? " 

Mr.  Bullwinkle's  lamp  flickered  in  the  socket,  and 
finally  went  out.  Fanny  Hazleton  saw  only  one  person  in 
the  rooms,  and  that  was  my  cousin  Rowley.  But  the  story 
is  not  yet  told. 


ORANGE   BLOSSOMS.         .  87 

Bell  made  so  many  engagements  for  her  cousin,  was  so 
often  with  him  at  the  balls,  concerts,  parties  ;  that  the 
"  surmise  "  grew  into  a  general  belief. 

One  day  I  received  a  note.  It  was  from  Fanny  Hazle- 
ton.  A  poor  family,  in  great  distress,  had  a  sick  child,  and 
she  wanted  me  to  prescribe  for  it.  "  As  I  do  not  know  the 
number  of  the  house,"  it  said,  "  call  for  me  and  I  will  go 
with  you.  P.  S.  Come  yourself." 

I  did  prescribe  for  the  sick  child,  and  then  walked  home 
with  Fanny. 

"  Your  cousin  is  going  to  be  married  ?  "  she  said  in  a 
tremulous  voice. 

"  Who  says  so  ?  " 

"  Every  body.    He  is  engaged  to  Miss  Bassett." 

"Everybody  says  you  are  engaged  to  Mr.  Bullwinkle." 

"  What,  him  ?  I  detest  him  !  But  your  cousin  and 
Miss  Bassett  ?  " 

"  Miss  Bassett  is  engaged — " 

"  It  is  true  then  ?  " 

"  To  a  gentleman  in  Baltimore,  Mr.  Savage." 

Fanny  threw  back  her  hood,  and  looked  up  at  the  sky, 
as  if  a  whole  troop  of  cherubs  had  flocked  out  of  the  zenith. 

"  Now,  my  dear,  dear  cousin,  go  at  once  to  Fanny 
Hazleton's,  and  do  not  let  the  grass  grow  under  your  feet ! 


88  ORANGE  BLOSSOMS. 

And  Kowley  did  go,  and  six  months  after,  I  saw  the 
wreath  of  orange  blossoms  like  a  crown  of  glory  over  Fanny's 
fair  forehead ;  and  Bell  Bassett  was  the  prettiest  brides 
maid  that  ever  waited  upon  bride. 

"And  the  white-hand  ?  " 

"  Is  a  memory  like  the  rose  buds  !  " 


BUNKER    HILL: 

3to  dblft-Cime 


ITT  was  a  starry  night  in  June  ;  the  air  was  soft  and  still, 

When  the  minute  men  from  Cambridge  came,  and  gathered  on 

the  hill  : 

Beneath  us  lay  the  sleeping  town,  around  us  frowned  the  fleet, 
But  the  pulse  of  freemen,  not  of  slaves,  within  our  bosoms  beat, 
And  every  heart  rose  high  with  hope,  as  fearlessly  we  said, 
"  We  will  be  numbered  with  the  free,  or  numbered  with'  the  dead  !  " 

"  Bring  out  the  line  to  mark  the  trench,  and  stretch  it  on  the  sward  !  " 
The  trench  is  marked  —  the  tools  are  brought  —  we  utter  not  a  word, 
But  stack  our  guns,  then  fall  to  work,  with  mattock  and  with  spade, 
A  thousand  men  with  sinewy  arms,  and  not  a  sound  is  made  : 
So  still  were  we,  the  stars  beneath,  that  scarce  a  whisper  fell  ; 
We  heard  the  red-coat's  musket  click,  and  heard  him  cry,  "  All's 
well!" 


90  BUNKER    HILL  I    AN    OLD-TIME    BALLAD. 

And  here  and  there  a  twinkling  port,  reflected  on  the  deep, 

In  many  a  wavy  shadow  showed  their  sullen  guns  asleep. 

Sleep  on,  thou  bloody  hireling  crew !  in  careless  slumber  lie ; 

The  trench  is  growing  broad  and  deep,  the  breastwork  broad  and 

high: 

No  striplings  we,  but  bear  the  arms  that  held  the  French  in  check, 
The  drum  that  beat  at  Louisburgh,  and  thundered  in  Quebec ! 
And  thou,  whose  promise  is  deceit,  no  more  thy  word  we'll  trust, 
Thou  butcher  Gage !  thy  power  and  thee  we'll  humble  in  the  dust ; 
Thou  and  thy  tory  minister  have  boasted  to  thy  brood, 
"The  lintels  of  the  faithful  shall  be  sprinkled  with  our  blood  !" 
But  though  these  walls  those  lintels  be,  thy  zeal  is  all  in  vain, 
A  thousand  freeman  shall  rise  up  for  every  freeman  slain, 
And  when  o'er  trampled  crowns  and  thrones  they  raise  the  mighty 

shout, 
This  soil  their  Palestine  shall  be !  their  altar  this  redoubt ! 

See  how  the  morn  is  breaking !  the  red  is  in  the  sky, 

The  mist  is  creeping  from  the  stream  that  floats  in  silence  by, 

The  Lively's  hull  looms  through  the  fog,  and  they  our  works  have 

spied, 

For  the  ruddy  flash  and  round  shot  part  in  thunder  from  her  side ; 
And  the  Falcon  and  the  Cerberus  make  every  bosom  thrill, 
With  gun  and  shell,  and  drum  and  bell,  and  boatswain's  whistle 

shrill; 

But  deep  and  wider  grows  the  trench,  as  spade  and  mattock  ply, 
For  we  have  to  cope  with  fearful  odds,  and  the  time  is  drawing  nigh ! 

Up  with  the  pine-tree  banner !     Our  gallant  Prescott  stands 
Amid  the  plunging  shells  and  shot,  and  plants  it  with  his  hands ; 


BUNKER    HILL  I    AN    OLD-TIME    BALLAD.  1)1 

Up  with  the  shout !  for  Putnam  comes  upon  his  reeking  bay, 
With  bloody  spur  and  foamy  bit,  in  haste  to  join  the  fray : 
And  Pomeroy,  with  his  snow-white  hairs,  and  face  all  flush  and  sweat, 
Unscathed  by  French  and  Indian,  wears  a  youthful  glory  yet. 
But  thou,  whose  soul  is  glowing  in  the  summer  of  thy  years, 
Unvanquishable  Warren,  thou  (the  youngest  of  thy  peers) 
Wert  born,  and  bred,  and  shaped,  and  made  to  act  a  patriot's  part, 
And  dear  to  us  thy  presence  is  as  heart's  blood  to  the  heart ! 
Well  may  ye  bark,  ye  British  wolves  !  with  leaders  such  as  they, 
Not  one  will  fail  to  follow  where  they  choose  to  lead  the  way — 
As  once  before,  scarce  two  months  since,  we  followed  on  your  track, 
And  with  our  rifles  marked  the  road  ye  took  in  going  back : 
Ye  slew  a  sick  man  in  his  bed ;  ye  slew,  with  hands  accursed, 
A  mother  nursing,  and  her  blood  fell  on  the  babe  she  nursed : 
By  their  own  doors  our  kinsmen  fell  and  perished  in  the  strife ; 
But  as  we  hold  a  hireling's  cheap,  and  dear  a  freeman's  life, 
By  Tanner  brook  and  Lincoln  bridge,  before  the  shut  of  sun, 
We  took  the  recompense  we  claimed — a  score  for  every  one  ! 

Hark !  from  the  town  a  trumpet !     The  barges  at  the  wharf 
Are  crowded  with  the  living  freight — and  now  they're  pushing  off : 
With  clash  and  glitter,  trump  and  drum,  in  all  its  bright  array, 
Behold  the  splendid  sacrifice  move  slowly  o'er  the  bay ! 
And  still  and  still  the  barges  fill,  and  still  across  the  deep, 
Like  thunder-clouds  along  the  sky,  the  hostile  transports  sweep ; 
And  now  they're  forming  at  the  Point — and  now  the  lines  advance, 
We  see  beneath  the  sultry  sun  their  polished  bayonets  glance, 
We  hear  a-near  the  throbbing  drum,  the  bugle  challenge  ring, 
Quick  bursts,  and  loud,  the  flashing  cloud,  and  rolls  from  wing  to  wing, 


92  BUNKER    HILL  :    AN    OLD-TIME    BALLAD. 

But  on  the  height  our  bulwark  stands,  tremendous  in  its  gloom, 
As  sullen  as  a  tropic  sky,  and  silent  as  the  tomb. 

And  so  we  waited — till  we  saw,  at  scarce  ten  rifles'  length, 
The  old  vindictive  Saxon  spite,  in  all  its  stubborn  strength ; 
When  sudden,  flash  on  flash,  around  the  jagged  rampart  burst 
From  every  gun  the  livid  light  upon  the  foe  accurst : 
Then  quailed  a  monarch's  might  before  a  free-born  people's  ire ; 
Then  drank  the  sward  the  veteran's  life,  where  swept  the  yeoman's  fire ; 
Then,  staggered  by  the  shot,  we  saw  their  serried  columns  reel, 
And  fall,  as  falls  the  bearded  rye  beneath  the  reaper's  steel : 
And  then  arose  a  mighty  shout  that  might  have  waked  the  dead, 
"  Hurrah !  they  run !  the  field  is  won  ! "    "  Hurrah !  the  foe  is  fled ! " 
And  every  man  hath  dropped  his  gun  to  clutch  a  neighbor's  hand, 
As  his  heart  kept  praying  all  the  while  for  Home  and  Native  Land. 

Thrice  on  that  day  we  stood  the  shock  of  thrice  a  thousand  foes ; 
And  thrice  that  day  within  our  lines  the  shout  of  victory  rose ! 
And  though  our  swift  fire  slackened  then,  and  reddening  in  the  skies, 
We  saw,  from  Charlestown's  roofs  and  walls,  the  flamy  columns  rise ; 
Yet  while  we  had  a  cartridge  left,  we  still  maintained  the  fight, 
Nor  gained  the  foe  one  foot  of  ground  upon  that  blood-stained  height. 

What  though  for  us  no  laurels  bloom,  nor  o'er  the  nameless  brave 
No  sculptured  trophy,  scroll,  nor  hatch,  records  a  warrior-grave  ? 
What  though  the  day  to  us  was  lost  ?     Upon  that  deathless  page 
The  everlasting  charter  stands,  for  every  land  and  age ! 
For  man  hath  broke  his  felon  bonds  and  cast  them  in  the  dust, 
And  claimed  his  heritage  divine,  and  justified  the  trust ; 


BUNKER    HILL  :    AN    OLD-TIME    BALLAD.  93 

While  through  his  rifted  prison-bars  the  hues  of  freedom  pour 
O'er  every  nation,  race,  and  clime,  on  every  sea  and  shore 
Such  glories  as  the  patriarch  viewed,  when,  'mid  the  darkest  skies, 
He  saw,  above  a  ruined  world,  the  Bow  of  Promise  rise. 


A    CHRONICLE    OF 
THE    VILLAGE    OF    BABYLON. 

"  SUCCESS  is  wisdom : 
If  the  result  be  happy  we  have  been  wise.1'— MRS.  MYKA  MASON. 

TN  all  great  actions  two  elements  are  indispensable. 

First — the  task  must  be  exceedingly  difficult  in  order 
to  develope  those  heroic  qualities — fortitude  and  perse 
verance. 

Secondly — The  result  must  be  an  equivalent  for  the 
labor ;  a  consideration  which  appears  to  have  been  over 
looked  by  all  legislators,  or  it  might  have  prevented  most 
of  the  battles,  massacres,  burnings  and  bloodshed  since  the 
beginning  of  the  world. 

Whether  or  no  I  have  succeeded  in  gaining  the  latter, 
posterity  shall  judge,  and  as  regards  the  former,  I  can  only 
ask  of  those  who  have  any  knowledge  of  the  Babylonii,  if  any 
thing  in  the  shape  of  information  is  not  exceedingly  diffi 
cult  to  get  at  among  that  sage  and  taciturn  people  ?  In 


96  A   CHRONICLE    OF    THE    VILLAGE   OF    BABYLON. 

fact,  a  genuine  Long-Islander,  like  one  of  his  native  oys 
ters,  is  held  to  be  of  little  value  unless  he  can  keep  his 
mouth  shut.  Judge  then  of  the  labor  it  has  cost  to  bring 
into  the  world  this  true  and  impartial  history.  To  search 
the  misspelt  records  of  the  township  ;  to  dive  into  num 
berless  authorities  ;  to  collect  the  waifs  and  floating  straws 
of  tradition  ;  to  collate,  examine,  sift,  weigh,  accept,  refuse 
and  discriminate  among  these  heterogeneous  materials,  has 
been  to  me  a  labor  of  love  ;  and  fearing  that  no  other  per 
son  will  ever  undertake  the  arduous  task  for  the  benefit 
of  posterity,  with  much  brain-work  and  wasting  of  the 
midnight  oil,  I  have  at  last  perfected  this  invaluable 
work. 

Unfortunately  there  are  no  authentic  antediluvian  rec 
ords  of  Babylon.  Neither  do  we  find  a  distinct  and  reliable 
account  of  such  a  place  among  the  travels  of  those  ancient 
navigators,  the  Phoenicians  ;  but  from  the  known  habits  of 
that  mighty  hunter,  Nimrod,  it  is  but  reasonable  to  sup 
pose  that  after  the  dispersion  of  the  builders  of  the  tower 
of  Babel,  he  would  be  likely  to  look  out  some  place  to 
gratify  his  peculiar  tastes,  and  the  South  Side  affording 
him  every  facility,  he  might  naturally  settle  there  for  the 
remainder  of  his  days.  Nor  is  this  merely  a  matter  of 
conjecture,  for  there  is  a  vague  tradition  floating  around 


A    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    VILLAGE    OF    BABYLON.  97 

the  village  to  that  effect,  the  most  powerful  argument  in 
its  favor  being  this  : 

"  If  Nimrod  did  not  go  to  Babylon,  where  did  he  go  ?  " 

Until  this  question  is  satisfactorily  answered,  I  shall 
claim  the  great  Assyrian  as  the  founder  of  the  ancient 
village  of  Babylon. 

Having  thus  settled  the  postdiluvian  era  of  the  dis 
covery  of  this  ancient  and  renowned  village,  there  still  re 
mains,  in  mysterious  obscurity,  a  vast  interval.  I  shall 
not,  after  the  manner  of  many  historians,  attempt  to  bridge 
over  this  dark  period  with  idle  conjecture,  but  rather  let  it 
remain  a  shadowy  and  fathomless  sea  in  silent  sublimity, 
adding  beauty  by  contrast  to  the  lifelike  picture  of  a  later 
and  more  eventful  age. 

Babylon  is  bounded  north  by  the  railroad,  south  by 
the  great  South  Bay,  east  by  Coquam  or  Skoquam  Creek, 
and  west  by  Sunkwam  or  Great  Creek :  whether  these 
fertilizing  streams  ever  received  the  names  of  the  Euphrates 
and  Tigris  is  not  known.  Yet  it  is  but  reasonable  to  sup 
pose  that  the  Chaldean  monarch  gave  them  these  titles  in 
honor  of  the  ancient  city  of  Confusion.  For  several  thou 
sand  years  the  descendants  of  the  great  hunter  occupied 
the  territory  bequeathed  to  them  in  peaceful  security.  The 
Syrian  merged  in  the  red  man  ;  his  very  language  was  un- 


98  A    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    VILLAGE    OF    BABYLON. 

known,  his  origin  forgotten ;  the  beautiful  oriental  Chaldaic 
was  changed  into  the  barbarous  dialect  of  the  Massapequas, 
and  a  rude  tribe,  "  a  mere  handful  of  men/'  was  all  that  re 
mained  of  a  nation  whose  greatness  had  o'ershadowed  the 
earth. 

But  the  lapse  of  centuries  had  not  altered  the  natural 
beauties  of  the  land.  The  primitive  forest  still  extended 
to  the  verge  of  the  green  meadows  that  bordered  the  bay. 
The  antlered  deer  stooped  to  drink  from  the  clear  streams 
that  wound  their  sinuous  way  through  the  shadowy  woods. 
The  patient  beaver  "built  his  little  Venice"  upon  their 
banks,  while  the  elk  upheaved  his  proud  neck  like  a  mon 
arch,  and  bounded  away  at  the  scream  of  the  wild  cat  or 
the  cry  of  the  rapacious  wolf.  The  swan  rippled  with  her 
snowy  bosom  the  placid  waters  of  the  bay ;  the  pelican 
reared  its  rude  nest  amid  the  pines,  and  the  plumed  and 
painted  Indian  in  his  slender  canoe  floated  like  a  dream 
upon  the  transparent  bosom  of  the  waters.  The  Massape 
quas,  a  peaceful  piscivorous  nation,  had  but  a  faint  idea  of 
the  glories  of  war  ;  a  night  excursion  to  steal  some  trifle 
from  the  neighboring  Secatouges  or  the  Shinecocks  (a  tribe 
noted  for  anointing  their  bodies  with  the  fat  of  the  opos 
sum),  or  the  laughter-loving  Merrikokes,  was  the  extent 
of  their  predatory  forays. 


A    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    VILLAGE    OF    BABYLON.  99 

Even  these  night  rambles  were  unsuited  to  the  genius 
of  a  quiet  people  ;  retaliation  soon  quenched  this  warlike 
spirit ;  and  like  the  Babylonii  of  modern  days,  they  pre 
ferred  making  raids  upon  the  peaceful  inhabitants  of  the 
bay — for  in  those  days  salmon  did  abound,  yea,  plen 
tiful  as  shirks  and  blue  fish ;  and  many  a  black  canoe, 
with  the  spearman  standing  out  in  bold  relief  by  the  light 
of  his  pine-knot  torch,  could  be  seen,  where  now  the  solitary 
tower  on  Fire  Island  casts  its  menacing  glare  upon  the 
waves. 

Such  was  the  enviable  condition  of  the  territory  of 
Babylon  or  "  Sunkwam,"  as  it  was  then  denominated,  and  so 
it  remained  until  the  discovery  of  the  island  of  Manhattan, 
and  the  landing  of  the  pilgrim  fathers  and  mothers  upon 

the  famous  rock  at  New  Plymouth.     It  is  not  my  purpose 

. 
to  repeat  these  familiar  portions  of  the  history  of  the  new 

world.  The  rise  and  fall  of  the  Dutch  dynasty,  and  the 
colonial  government  of  the  Puritans  are  well  known  to 
every  man,  woman  and  child  in  the  country.  The  patient 
Netherlander  slowly  populated  the  peaceful  city  of  the 
Manhattoes.  The  Pilgrims  took  possession  successively  of 
Massachusetts,  Connecticut  and  Khode  Island.  But  Sunk 
wam  was  reserved  for  greater  things,  and  therefore  her  day 
came  later  than  the  rest.  It  was  not  until  the  middle  of 


100        A    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    VILLAGE    OF    BABYLON. 

the  seventeenth  century,  that  the  first  irruption  of  tin- 
white  men  into  the  territory  of  the  Massapequas  took 
place.  The  western  end  of  the  island  nearest  New- Am 
sterdam  had  been  deliberately  settled  by  the  phlegmatic 
Dutchmen,  while  their  more  mercurial  brethren  had  ex 
tended  themselves  over  the  largest  portion  of  the  island, 
from  Montauk  Point  to  the  present  western  boundaries  of 
Suffolk  county.  At  the  latter  place  an  imaginary  line  had 
been  drawn  defining  the  limits  of  the  respective  settle 
ments,  but  in  1642  a  party  of  Orientals  started  from  the 
town  of  Lynn,  and,  with  true  Yankee  audacity,  squatted 
themselves  at  Cow  Bay,  directly  within  the  boundaries  of 
the  Dutch  territory.  Now  Governor  Keift  was  a  little 
man,  and  not  over  brave  for  a  governor,  but  like  many 
other  little  men  he  could  do  a  great  deal  of  fighting — at  a 
distance.  So  he  forthwith  dispatched  a  rascally  bailiff,  one 
Cornelius  Van  Tienhoven,  with  directions  to  capture  this 
band  of  "infamous  Yankees,"  who  had  dared  to  come  (from 
Lynn)  "  between  the  wind  and  his  nobility."  Whereupon 
the  said  Cornelius  took  with  him  six  good  men  and  true, 
and  after  a  laborious  journey  of  three  weeks,  five  days  and 
twenty-three  hours,  arrived  in  sight  of  the  embryo  colony. 
Here  he  reposed  for  two  days  and  a  half  to  recover  his 
wind,  and  then  taking  off  his  coat  and  tying  his  suspenders 


A    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    VILLAGE    OF    BABYLON.        101 

around  his  capacious  abdomen,  started  off  alone  to  take 
the  settlement  by  storm,  leaving  his  valiant  army  behind 
as  a  "  corps  de  reserve."  As  luck  would  have  it,  just  as  he 
reached  the  brow  of  the  little  hill  which  rises  before  Cow 
Bay,  his  foot  slipped  in  something,  and  he  rolled  down  the 
hill  toward  the  ill-fated  colony.  When  the  Yankees  beheld 
this  huge  Dutch  avalanche  coming  down,  and  threat 
ening  to  demolish  the  whole  of  them  in  a  twinkling,  they 
were  seized  with  a  horrible  panic,  and  ran  away  as  if  the 
devil  was  after  them.*  Then,  as  is  the  custom  with  puis 
sant  conquerors,  did  the  aforementioned  Cornelius  take  a 
view  of  the  village,  which,  by  the  law  of  nations,  had  again 
become  a  possession  of  the  States  General,  and  twisting 
his  mighty  moustache,  seize  and  carry  off  with  him  the 
spoils  and  prisoners  of  war,  namely :  an  old  woman 
with  the  fever  and  ague,  a  yellow-headed  baby  with  goose 
berry  eyes,  together  with  a  bag  of  corn  meal  and  a  huge 
rasher  of  pork,  and  march  back  to  Nieuw-Amsterdam 

*  Here  let  me  caution  my  readers  against  the  account  given  by  DIEDRICH 
KNICKERBOCKER  in  the  History  of  New- York,  of  this  memorable  event.  I  do 
most  heartily  believe  every  thing  that  he  relates,  except  when  he  speaks  of 
the  Yankees,  but  there,  methinks,  his  prejudice  has  warped  his  accuracy. 
Beside,  how  could  "STOFFEL  BRINKERIIOFF,"  as  he  asserts,  "trudge  through 
Nineveh  and  Babylon,  and  Jericho  and  Patchogue,  and  the  mighty  town 
of  Quog,  on  his  way  to  Oyster  Bay  ?  "  He  might  as  well  have  tried  to  get  to 
Albany  by  the  way  of  Coney  Island ! 


102        A    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    VILLAGE    OF    BABYLON. 

like  a  modern  Mexican  hero,  fresh  from  the  "  Halls  of  the 
Monte/uina  s." 


But  this  little  circumstance  was  productive  of  a  great 
result,  for  one  of  the   aforesaid  Yankees,  Hosea   Carl   by 


A    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    VILLAGE    OF    BABYLON.        103 

name,  ran  straight  across  the  island  and  never  drew  breath 
until  he  came  in  sight  of  the  pleasant  waters  of  the  Great 
South  Bay.  Here  he  -beheld  the  wigwams  of  the  renowned 
Massapequas,  and  finding  them  to  be  an  indolent  devil- 
may-care  set  of  savages,  forthwith  took  them  under  his 
kindly  protection.  It  was  on  this  memorable  day,  namely, 
the  twenty-third  of  May,  1642,  that  the  first  blue-fish 
was  eaten  by  a  white  man  within  the  precincts  of  Sunk- 
wam,  or  Sunquam  as  it  is  sometimes  erroneously  spelt. 
Nor  must  I  omit  to  relate  that  this  same  Hosea  Carl  had 
in  his  waistcoat  pocket  some  pumpkin  seeds,  which  he 
planted  without  delay,  for  the  pumpkin  is  the  mystic  sym 
bol  of  the  Yankees,  and  the  planting  thereof  gives  as  good 
a  title  to  the  soil  as  right  of  possession  by  flag-staff,  or  any 
other  ingenious  invention  by  which  barbarous  tribes  are 
taught  to  respect  the  rights  and  claims  of  civilized  nations. 
Being  thus  in  a  manner  under  the  shade  of  his  own  vine 
and  fig-tree,  Hosea  sent  a  faithful  copperhead,  Squidko  by 
name,  to  hunt  up  his  wife,  who  had  fled  before  the  terrible 
splutter-damns  of  Cornelius  Von  Tienhoven,  like  a  struck 
wild-fowl  at  the  sound  of  a  rusty  gun. 

The  daguerreotype  painted  upon  the  memory  of  Squidko 
was  a  perfect  likeness,  and  in  a  few  days  the  hapless  fugi 
tive  was  found.  Hosea  then  made  a  "  clearing,"  and  before 


104        A    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    VILLAGE    OF    BABYLON. 

many  years  a  small  tribe  of  musquito-bitten,  saffron-headed 
Hoseas,  surrounded  the  parental  clapboards.  About  two 
years  after  this  memorable  epoch,  certain  Indians  who  had 
been  committing  various  depredations,  were  attacked  by 
the  famous  Captain  John  Underbill,  in  the  palisado  called 
Fort  Neck,  about  eight  miles  from  Babylon,  and  utterly 
routed  with  much  slaughter.  Now  this  said  John  Under- 
hill  was  not  only  a  terrible  fellow  among  the  savages,  but 
he  used  to  raise  the  devil's  delight  in  every  village  where 
he  happened  to  be  quartered,  for  he  was  a  great  favorite 
with  the  fair  sex  (which  is  always  the  case  with  warriors 
and  other  noted  characters),  and  although  doubtless  an 
innocent  man,  yet  the  viperous  tongue  of  slander  will 
assail  the  purest  and  the  most  virtuous.  Hence  we 
find  it  recorded  in  Thompson's  admirable  History  of 
Long  Island,  out  of  Hutchinson,  that  "before  a  great 
assembly  at  Boston  on  a,  lecture  day  and  in  the  court-house, 
he  sat  upon  a  stool  of  repentance,  with  a  white  cap  on  his 
head  ;  and  with  many  deep  sighs,  a  ivoful  countenance,  and 
abundance  of  tears,  owned  his  wicked  way  of  life,  and 
besought  the  church  to  have  compassion  on  him,  and  de 
liver  him  out  of  the  hands  of  Satan."  Which  after  all  was 
only  a  general  and  not  a  specific  acknowledgment  of  any 
one  sin  with  which  he  had  been  charged,  for  doth  he  not 


A    CHRONICLE    OF    THE   VILLAGE    OF    BABYLON.        105 

affirm  when  he  had  been  privately  dealt  with  for  inconti- 
nency — That  "  the  woman  being  very  young  and  beautiful, 
and  withal  of  a  jovial  spirit  and  behaviour,  he  did  daily 
frequent  her  house,  and  was  divers  times  found  there  alone 
with  her,  the  door  being  locked  on  the  inside,  and  confessed 
that  it  was  ill,  because  it  had  the  appearance  of  evil  in  it ; 
but  that  the  woman  was  in  great  trouble  of  mind  and  sore 
temptation,  and  that  he  resorted  to  her  to  comfort  her ; 
and  that  when  the  door  was  found  locked  upon  them  they 
were  in  private  prayer  together  ?  " — an  explanation  which 
ought  to  be  perfectly  satisfactory  to  every  reasonable  mind. 

Moreover,  doth  not  the  following  extract  from  his  letter 
to  his  "  Worthee  and  Beloved  friend,  Hansard  Knowles," 
clearly  show  that  the  times,  and  not  the  man  were  in 
error  ? 

"  They  propounded  that  I  was  to  be  examined  for  car 
nally  looking  after  one  Mistris  Miriam  Wilbore,  at  the  lec 
ture  in  Boston  when  Master  Shepherd  expounded.  This 
Mistris  Wilbore  hath  since  been  dealt  with  for  coming  to 
that  lecture  with  a  pair  of  wanton  open-worked  gloves,  slit 
at  the  thumbs  and  fingers,  for  the  purpose  of  taking  snuff. 
For,  as  Master  Cotton  observed,  for  what  end  should  these 
vain  openings  be,  but  for  the  intent  of  taking  filthy  snuff? 
and  he  quoted  Gregory  Nazianzen  upon  good  works.  How 


106        A    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    VILLAGE    OF    BABYLON. 

the  use  of  the  good  creature  tobacco,  can  be  an  offence,  I 
cannot  see.  Master  Cotton  said,  '  Did  you  not  look  upon 
Mistris  Wilbore  ? '  I  confessed  that  I  did.  Master  Peters 
'then  sayd,  '  Why  did  you  not  look  at  sister  Newell,  or  sister 
Upham  ? '  I  sayd  '  Yerelie,  they  are  not  desyrable  women, 
as  to  temporal  graces/  Then  Hugh  Peters  and  all  cryed, i  It 
is  enough,  he  hath  confessed/  and  so  passed  excommunica 
tion."  Now  I  would  like  to  know  what  would  become  of 
our  modern  church-gallants  if  they  were  liable  to  be  ex 
communicated  upon  such  charges  ? 

Having  thus  redeemed  the  character  of  this  jolly  bach 
elor  from  the  foul  aspersions  of  a  cynical  age,  it  but  re 
mains  for  me  to  say,  that  from  him  sprang  the  present  race 
of  Underbills,  who  are  to  be  found  by  every  shady  hill-side 
on  Long  Island ;  men  celebrated  all  over  the  face  of  the 
earth  for  their  morality  and  bravery. 

The  first  Yankee  discoverer  of  Sunkwam  did  mot  remain 
there  long  without  having  neighbors.  The  Smiths,  the 
Seamans,  the  Hicks,  the  Willetts,  the  Coopers  and  the 
Udells,  planted  themselves  side  by  side  with  the  primitive 
adventurer  ;  and  about  this  time  the  family  of  the  Snedi- 
cors,  springing  up  earth-born,  the  Lord-knows-how,  began 
to  overrun  the  country  like  a  wild  cucumber- vine,  and 
finally  shot  up  in  a  single  night  in  the  hitherto  purely 


A    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    VILLAGE    OF    BABYLON.         107 

Yankee  village  of  Sunkwam.  The  Orientals  initiated  the 
Indians  in  the  mysteries  of  ruin,  gunpowder,  pumpkin- 
pies  and  jewsharps,  and  the  Indians  rewarded  their  instruc 
tors  with  plentiful  grants  of  land  and  prodigious  clam 
bakes.  On  the  fourth  of  July,  1657,  Tackapausha,  the 
sachem  of  the  Massapequas,  made  a  treaty  with  the  Dutch 
Governor,  by  which  Sunkwam  became  nominally  a  province 
of  the  Nieuw  Netherlandts  ;  but  the  conquest  of  .the  latter 
place,  in  1664,  by  the  English,  restored  the  settlers  to  that 
liberty  which  they  had  lost  only  in  name.  And  now 
peace  and  serenity  was  with  Sunkwam.  The  conical  wig 
wams  of  the  savages  were  giving  place  to  the  clapboard 
castles  of  the  industrious  Yankees.  Here  and  there  a 
snowy  sail  careered  over  the  bay  where  erst  had  been  seen 
only  the  bark  canoe  of  the  aborigine.  Population  thrived, 
agriculture  flourished :  the  sportive  cucumber  meandered 
among  the  green  corn,  the  peaceful  pumpkin  rolled  its  fair 
round  proportions  on  the  sunny  slopes  ;  and  the  commerce 
of  Sunkwam  spread  like  a  battalia  of  white  moths  over  the 
neighboring  bays  and  inlets. 

Such  was  the  happy  condition  of  Babylon  an  hundred 
and  fifty  years  ago  ;  it  is  a  picture  I  am  never  weary  of 
contemplating.  Let  me  lay  aside  my  pen,  and  look  upon 
it  with  the  delight  of  a  father  who  gazes  upon  his  first- 


108        A    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    VILLAGE    OF    BABYLON. 

born  with  those  exquisite  feelings  known  only  to  the  paren 
tal  heart  ! 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century  that 
the  redoubtable  Captain  Kidd,  of  pious  memory,  dropped 
anchor  off  the  fertile  shores  of  Long  Island.  The  purpose 
of  the  expedition,  which  was  to  put  an  end  to  the  robberies 
upon  the  high  seas  ;  the  fruit  of  his  experience  with  these 
modem  "  Vikings,"  which  ended  in  his  becoming  a  pirate 
himself  ;  and  his  end  at  Execution  Dock  in  1701,  are  well 
known  to  every  one  ;  but  on  board  of  his  vessel  he  had 
many  innocent  persons,  who  were  subordinate  officers,  sea 
men,  and  the  like,  shipped  with  no  other  motive  than  that 
of  serving  their  king,  the  press-gang,  and  their  country. 
Among  those  who  had  become  pirates  by  compulsion  was 
the  sailing-master  of  the  vessel,  one  Jacob  O'Lynn  ;  prob 
ably  a  lineal  descendant  of  that  famous  Bryan  O'Lynn, 
who  had 

-  "  No  breeches  to  wear, 

So  he  bought  him  a  sheep-skin  to  make  him  a  pair  ; 
With  the  woolly  side  out  and  the  leather  side  in, 
4  They'll  be  cool  in  warm  weather.'  says  BRYAN 


Be  that  as  it  may,  Lynn  (for  he  was  an  Englishman, 
and  had  dropped  the  Hibernic  '  0;)  was  a  warm-hearted, 
double-fisted,  square-chested  sea-dog,  who  did  not  care  the 


A    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    VILLAGE    OF    BABYLON.        109 

toss  of  a  biscuit  who  he  served  under,  if  there  was  plenty 
of  fighting  and  the  liquor  was  good.     His  chief  amusement 
was  playing  on  an  enormous  conch-shell,  given  him  by 
some  princess  on  the  coast  of  Africa,  who  had  taken  a 
fancy  to  his  broad  shoulders  and  manly  proportions  ;  and 
his  favorite  position  was  to  get  astride  of  the  bowsprit, 
blowing  his   enormous   conch  like  a  jolly  triton  playing 
"  Come  o'er  the  Sea "  before   Queen   Amphitrite  ;   from 
whence  he  received  the  name  of  "  Conch  Lynn,"  since  cor 
rupted  into  "  Conklin."     It  is  necessary  to  be  particular  in 
these  matters,  because  they  are  the  stepping-stones  of  all  true 
history.     But  this  said  Conch  Lynn,  disliking  exceedingly 
the  customs  of  those  sea  anti-renters,  the  pirates,  took  an 
opportunity  while  Kidd  was  asleep,  after  a  hard  day's  drink 
ing,  strapped  his  beloved  conch-shell  around  his  neck,  filled 
his  pockets  with  doubloons  and  jewels,  dropped  overboard, 
swam  ashore,  and  landed  high  and  dry  on  the  beach  at 
Fire  Island.     Here  he  blew  a  terrific  blast  upon  his  conch- 
shell  in  honor  of  his  safe  arrival,  the  sound  of  which  killed 
a  whole  flock  of  snipe  who  were  skippereering  along  the 
beach ;  then  turning  a  somerset  in  his  joy,  and  making 
telegraphic  signals  with  his  legs,  whereby  he  lost  many 
jewels  and  other  valuables  out  of  his  jacket-pockets,  he 
swam  and  waded  across  the  bay,  and  finally  landed  safe 


110        A    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    VILLAGE    OF    BABYLON. 

at  Sunkwam.  Here  he  was  sumptuously  entertained  by 
the  inhabitants,  and  royally  feasted  upon  skillipots  and 
snappers,  beaver-tail,  baked  quohaugs,  blue-fish,  moss- 
bunkers,  and  other  delicacies,  washed  down  with  copious 
libations  jof  switchel  and  hard  cider ;  and  being  of  a  do 
mestic  turn  of  mind,  he  took  possession  of  a  deserted 
wigwam,  hired  a  buxom-looking  squaw  for  a  housekeeper, 
and  in  the  fulness  of  his  heart  kept  up  an  infernal  blarting 
upon  his  conch-shell  from  morning  till  night.  This  hideous 
concerto  was  more  than  the  Sunkwamites  had  bargained 
for  ;  accordingly,  in  a  very  eloquent  remonstrance,  now  in 
the  possession  of  the  Historical  Society  of  Babylon,  they 
requested  him  "  right  lovingely  either  to  cease  blowinge 
y°  aforesaid  konke,  whereby  ye  peace  of  ye  community  had 

beene  much  endamaged,  or  to  take  his  d d  shell  and 

blow  it  without  y6  jurisdiction  of  ye  colony."  As  might  be 
expected,  the  jolly  sailing-master  took  offence  at  this,  and 
shaking  the  dust  off  his  shoes,  departed  from  the  place  as 
mad  as  a  bear  with  a  sore  head.  After  trudging  for  two 
or  three  miles  across  the  swamps  and  pine-barrens,  he 
turned  round  and  gave  them  a  parting  blast  upon  his  sea- 
trumpet  that  sounded  like  the  famous  horn  of  Orlando  at 
the  dolorous  rout  of  Roncesvalles  ;  then  settling  himself  in 
the  interior,  he  married  out  of  sheer  spite,  and  begat  the 


A    CHRONICLE    OF    THE   VILLAGE    OF    BABYLON.        Ill 

numerous  race  of  Conklins,  who  are  renowned  for  blowing 
their  own  trumpets  even  to  this  day.  Nay,  it  is  asserted 
that  the  sound  of  his  conch-shell  can  be  heard  even  now 
swelling  upon  the  wind  across  the  bay  whenever  there  is  a 
storm  brewing  to  the  southward.  Still  the  little  settlement 
thrived  in  spite  of  these  untoward  mishaps,  and  it  was 
christened  Huntington- South,  in  honor  of  the  great  hunter 
who  had  founded  it. 

It  is  delightful  to  review  the  manners  and  customs  of 
this  little  colony.  Every  one  assisted  his  neighbor ;  the 
laws  were  administered  with  strict  impartiality,  and  I  have 
quoted  from  the  aforesaid  "  History  of  Long  Island "  the 
following  record  as  a  specimen  of  what  evenhanded  justice 
was  in  those  patriarchal  days. 

"  Town-Court,  Oct.  23,  1662. — Stephen  Jervice,  an 
attorney  in  behalf  of  James  Chichester,  plf.,  vs.  Tho. 
Scudder,  deft.,  action  of  ye  case  and  of  batery.  Deft,  says 
that  he  did  his  endeavor  to  save  ye  pigg  from  ye  wolfF,  but 
knows  no  hurt  his  dog  did  it ;  'and  as  for  ye  sow,  he  denys 
ye  charge.  Touching  ye  batery,  striking  ye  boye,  says  he 
did  strike  yee  boye,  but  it  was  for  abusing  his  daughter. 
Ye  verdict  of  ye  jury  is,  that  deft.'s  dog  is  not  fitt  to  be 
cept,  but  ye  acsion  fails  for  want  of  testimony  ;  but  touch 
ing  ye  batery,  ye  jury's  verdict  pass  for  plff.,  that  deft,  pay 


112        A    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    VILLAGE    OF    BABYLON. 

him  ten  shillings  for  striking  ye  boye,  and  ye  plff.  to  pay 
five  shillings  for  his  boye's  incivility/  Having  thus  found 
a  verdict  against  the  dog,  the  plaintiff  and  the  defendant, 
the  jury  were  allowed  to  proceed  to  their  respective 
homes. 

And  now,  even  as  a  laborer  after  a  hard  day's  work 
stretches  himself  and  slumbers  in  tranquillity,  did  the  little 
town  of  Huntington-South  enjoy  a  long  period  of  repose. 
The  old  settlers  were  gathered  in  the  silent  folds  where  all 
must  slumber — the  Indians  melted  from  the  land  like  snow 
before  the  sun  in  April.     Piece  by  piece  the  land  had  been 
purchased  by  the  whites  ;  nor  must  I  omit  to  mention  the 
story  of  Sally  Higbee,  "  who  didd  receive  a  notable  tract e 
of  land  from  one  Smackatagh,  by  reasonne  of  a  kisse  which 
he  did  begge  of  herr,  and  which  she  bestowde  in  considera- 
cion  of  havinge  the  said  lande  given  tow  herr  by  the  sal 
vage  ; "  and  also  the  manner  in  which  one  Jones  did  out- 
jump  an  Indian  for  a  wager  (the  latter  staking  forty  square 
miles  of  good  land  against  a  barrel  of  hard  cider),  and  being 
a  springy  varlet,  and  fall  of  quicksilver,  did  thereby  win 
the  same  from  him  by  a  foot  and  a  half.     With  the  excep 
tion  of  such  events,  Huntington-South  slumbered  on  for 
above  a  century.     The  war  of  the  revolution  broke  out  and 
rolled  like  a  sea  of  fire  around  her  scrub-oak  barriers  ;  but 


A    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    VILLAGE   OF    BABYLON.        113 

she  knew  it  not,  and  even  to  this  day,  it  is  said,  some  of 
the  inhabitants  pray  devoutly  for  the  restoration  of  King 
Charles  the  Second,  of  blessed  memory. 

At  last  the  nineteenth  century  dawned  upon  the  world. 
Voluminous  as  are  the  records  of  this  period,  one  important 
circumstance  has  escaped  the  notice  of  every  historian. 
Seizing  upon  this  event  with  the  joy  of  one  who  has  found 
a  treasure,  and  scarcely  credits  the  evidence  of  his  senses, 
I  shall  forthwith  reveal  how  Sunkwam  came  to  be  chris 
tened  by  the  name  it  now  bears.  In  1801,  one  Nat.  Conk- 
lin  (or  Conkelynge)  kept  a  store  in  the  village,  and  trans 
acted  a  profitable  business  with  the  inhabitants.  At  the 
same  time  an  Irishman,  Billy  Callighan  by  name,  had  a 
similar  establishment  for  the  vending  of  rum,  red  herrings, 
tape,  tobacco,  mackerel,  molasses,  cod-fish  and  calicoes. 
"  Huntington-South"  had  always  been  a  stumbling-block  in 
the  way  of  the  native  orthographists  (I  myself  have  seen 
more  than  seventeen  different  ways  of  spelling  it,  every 
one  of  them  wrong),  so  this  merry  little  Irishman,  in  honor 
of  his  native  city,  determined  to  name  it  DUBLIN  !  But 
Aunt  Phoebe  Conklin,  a  lineal  descendant  of  the  doughty 
Jacob,  settled  her  spectacles  firmly  upon  the  tip  of  her 
indefatigable  nose,  took  a  sharp  pinch  of  snuff  out  of  a 
testy-looking  little  box,  clapped  the  box  in  her  side  pocket, 


114       A    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    VILLAGE    OF    BABYLON. 

and  with  her  thumh  and  fore-finger  tightly  pinched 
together,  as  if  she  held  the  weasand  of  the  presumptuous 
Billy  Callighan  squeezed  between  them,  declared  she  would 
not  have  it  so  :  "  And  since  the  place  wants  a  name,"  said 
she,  "  I'll  name  it :  I'll  call  it  BABYLON  ! — because  there's 
always  so  much  '  babbling '  going  on  there  !  "  And  there 
upon  she  took  out  a  red  bandanna,  and  sounded  a  terrific 
blast  with  her  nose,  that  was  like  unto  the  sound  of  the 
mighty  conch-shell  of  her  valorous  ancestor.  So  the  village 
became  Babylon  by  sound  of  trumpet ! 

Nor  must  I  now  omit  to  describe  the  nominatrix  of  this 
puissant  village.  She  was  a  tall,  spare,  mathematical-look 
ing  lady,  with  a  face  like  a  last  will  and  testament,  with 
amen  !  written  in  every  corner.  Moreover,  she  was  bedight 
in  a  crimp-cap  and  white  short-gown,  with  a  black  silk 
kerchief  pinned  crossways  over  her  neck,  and  a  quilted 
calico  petticoat,  that  by  dint  of  repeated  washing  looked 
like  the  ghost  of  a  defunct  dolphin. 

Meanwhile,  one  Thompson,  who  was  likewise  an  aspi 
rant  for  fame,  must  needs  have  his  say  in  the  matter  ;  and 
being  of  a  milky  disposition,  of  wonderful  good-nature,  and 
wishing  every  body  well  in  the  world,  would  fain  give  Ba 
bylon  a  more  euphonious  title  ;  so  he  called  together  all  the 
inhabitants,  had  a  grand  "pow-wow"  at  his  house,  and 


A    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    VILLAGE   OF    BABYLON.        115 

spent  several  dollars  in  the  purchase  of  sundry  gallons  of 
corn-whiskey,  apple-jack  and  New-England  rum,  with 
which  the  company  became  wonderfully  mellow.  Then, 
after  much  preliminary  backing-and-£lling,  he  proposed — 
in  a  terribly  long-winded  speech,  which  the  limits  of  the 
work  will  not  permit  me  to  give  entire — "  that  the  village, 
being  a  quiet,  peaceful  little  place,  where  all  were  i  Unitas 
Fratrum,'  should  be  henceforth  known  and  denominated 
as  HARMONY  ; "  which  was  unanimously  ratified  upon  the 
spot  by  all  present.  This  important  ceremony  over,  the 
Harmonians  proceeded  to  the  more  serious  business  of  the 
night,  and  took  unto  themselves  sundry  juleps,  slings,  tod 
dies,  etc.  Then,  according  to  the  records  of  the  time,  did 
they  become  bucked,  boozy,  bunged  up,  corned,  sprung, 
swipesy,  swizzled,  soaked,  smashed,  slewed,  sewed-up,  sick, 
mellow,  maudlin,  hot,  funny,  toddied,  top-heavy,  half- 
snapped,  keeled-up,  drunken,  inebriated,  intoxicated,  one 
eye  open,  in  liquor,  weeping,  shouting,  swearing,  roaring, 
'flabbergasted,  all  talking  at  once,  kicked,  cuffed,  torn, 
fisted  ;  in  a  word,  they  made  as  infernal  an  uproar  as  ever 
had  been  made  at  the  building  of  the  veritable  tower  of 
Babel  upon  the  plains  of  Shinar  !  But  how  vain  are  hu 
man  efforts  to  contend  with  fate  !  The  sun  rose  in  the 
morning,  and  breaking  several  panes  of  glass  in  the  win- 


116        A    CHRONICLE    OF    THE    VILLAGE    OF    BABYLON. 

dows  of  the  east,  looked  through  and  smiled  in  peaceful 
serenity  upon  the  slumbering  village.  And  lo  and  behold  ! 
it  was  BABYLON  still,  and  so  it  has  remained  even  to  the 
present  day.  Having  thus  brought  this  philosophical  and 
philological  history  to  the  beginning  of  the  present  century, 
I  lay  aside  my  pen.  I  pass  over,  as  apocryphal,  the 
popular  rumor  of  Babylon  having  been  once  named  "  Dog- 
ville  ; "  but  justice  to  the  Babylonii  demands  that  I  should 
affirm,  upon  the  word  of  an  historian,  that  since  the  unfor 
tunate  issue  of  the  "  christening,"  they  have  continued  and 
still  remain  A  STRICTLY  TEMPERANCE  PEOPLE. 


THE    SEASONS. 

A  ROUND,  around,  around,  around, 
•£*-     The  snow  is  on  the  frozen  ground ; 
River  and  rill 
Are  frore  and  still, 

The  warm  sun  lies  on  the  cold  side  hill, 
And  the  trees  in  the  forest  sound, 
As  their  ice-clasped  arms  wave  to  and  fro 
When  they  shiver  their  gyves  with  a  stalwart  blow. 

Slowly,  slowly,  slowly,  slowly 
Comes  the  Spring, 
Like  a  maiden  holy  ; 
Her  hlue  eyes  hid  in  a  wimple  of  gray, 
But  a  hopeful  smile  on  her  face  alway  ; 
Through  the  rich,  brown  earth  bursts  the  pale,  green 

shoot 
From  the  milk-white  threads  of  the  sensitive  root, 


118  THE   SEASONS. 

Like  a  joy  that  is  fragile  and  fleeting  ; 
And  the  little  house  wren,  in  his  plain,  drab  coat, 
Holds  forth,  in  a  plaintive,  querulous  note, 

Like  a  Quaker  at  yearly  meeting. 

Of  Autumn,  gorgeous,  sombre,  and  sere, 
I  shall  probably  write  at  the  close  of  the  year, 
But  at  present,  the  jubilant  Summer  is  here — 
All  in  love — with  her  half  bursting  bodice  of  green, 
Just  disclosing  that  Kasselas  valley  between  ; 

And  her  farthingale  purfled  all  over — 
With  violets,  strawberries,  lilies,  and  tulips, 
Intermingled  with  mint-sprigs,  suggestive  of  juleps, 

And  suggestive  of  living  in  clover  ; 
Of  a  lid-shutting  breeze  in  the  shadow  of  trees, 
Of  love  in  a  cottage — and  lamb  and  green  peas, 
Of  claret  and  ice,  chicken-curry  and  rice, 
And  lobster  and  lettuce,  and  every  thing  nice, 
Of  fresh  milk — and  a  baby, 
And  butter,  and  cheese, 
And  a  thousand  affinitive  blessings  like  these. 

The  Summer,  joy-bringer  !  is  warm  on  my  cheek, 
It  blooms  on  the  blossom,  it  breathes  in  the  rose, 
And  if  nothing  occurs,  in  the  course  of  a  week, 
I  shall  be  where  the  pond-lily  blows  : 


THE    SEASONS.  119 

Where  the  wild  rose,  and  willow,  are  glassed  in  the  pool, — 
Where  the  mornings,  and  evenings,  are  fragrant  and  cool, — 
Where  the  breeze  from  old  Ocean  sweeps  over  the  bay, 
And  the  board  is  six  shillings  a  day  ! 


OLD    BOOKS. 

T  LOVE  old  books.  It  is  to  get  below  the  transitory 
surface  of  the  present,  the  alluvial  stratum  of  literature, 
to  stand  upon  the  primitive  rock,  the  gray,  and  ancient 
granite  of  the  early  world.  It  is  to  commune  with  the 
Spirit  of  the  Past,  to  roll  back  the  universe  through  cycle 
and  epicycle.  The  haze  of  antiquity  hangs  over  a  collec 
tion  of  old  books,  in  which  the  shapes  of  the  departed  are 
reflected,  like  the  gigantic  shadows  on  the  Brocken.  Ee- 
prints  have  none  of  it — you  lose  the  vital  elixir  in  the 
transmutation.  Here  lies  great  Hollingshead  ! — black-letter 
edition  of  1569  (so  the  colophon  tells  us),  dog's-eared 
with  the  weight  of  three  centuries.  Did  William  Cecil, 
Lord  Burleigh,  ever  bend  his  sagacious  head  over  these 
clear  pages  ?  Did  Kaleigh  ? — Bacon  ? — Essex  ? — Spen- 


122  OLD   BOOKS. 

ser  ?  Or  did  Elizabeth,  with  tears  of  pity,  read  the  touch 
ing  story  of  Lady  Jane  Grey,  here  painted  with  such 
minute  fidelity,  and  turn  again  to  marble  when  the  death- 
warrant  was  brought  for  her  signature  that  was  to  consign 
to  the  block,  her  kinswoman  of  Scotland — the  lovely,  royal, 
Mary  Stuart  ?  Yonder  "  standard  library  edition"  is  a 
faithful  copy,  but  this  book  was  cotemporary  with  Shak- 
speare  ;  this  was  extant  before  the  Armada.  This  volume 
was  read,  these  identical  leaves  turned  over,  ere  the  first 
spiral  of  tobacco  smoke  wound  upward  in  the  clear  English 
air,  or  Ireland  was  conscious  of  its  chief  national  blessing 
— the  potato ! 

I  trust  it  will  not  be  considered  pedantic  if  I  aver  I 
love  old  books  because  of  their  quaintness  in  typography 
and  orthography.  Who  would  like  to  see  sweet,  silvery 
Spenser,  or  scholastic  Burton  (great  finger-post  of  an 
tiquity,  pointing  to  all  manner  of  shady  lanes  and  for 
gotten  by-paths  of  learning),  shorn  of  their  exuberance  ? 
Who  feel  not,  when  reading  these  tawny  pages  of  Tattlers 
and  Spectators  (printed  in  Queen  Anne's  time)  something 
that  recalls  vividly  Will's  Coffee  House,  and  taciturn  Ad- 
dison,  and  great,  little  Alexander  Pope,  and  the  inexorable 
satirist  of  St.  Patrick's,  and  skeptical  Bolingbroke,  and 
Richard  Steele,  hiding  from  a  dirty  bailiff  in  an  obscure 


OLD    BOOKS.  123 

room,  to  pen  a  paragraph — haply  to  pay  for  his  dinner, 
haply  to  be  admired  by  all  posterity. 

Whatsoever  belongs  to  Latin  and  Greek,  interested  me 
most  at  an  earlier  period  of  life.  As  a  boy,  I  looked  up 
to  "large-handed  Achilles,"  and  Livy's  beautiful  narra 
tions,  with  unfeigned  delight.  Later  in  youth,  I  found 
new  worlds  in  German  literature,  in  Spanish,  Italian ;  but 
never  affected  much  the  French.  As  a  man  now,  in  this 
autumnal  season  of  life,  I  love  best  our  mother  tongue. 

"  Nor  scorn  not  mother  tongue,  O  babes  of  English  breed ! 
I  have  of  other  language  seen,  and  you  at  full  may  read, 
Fine  verses  trimly  wrought,  and  couched  in  comely  sort, 
But  never  I,  nor  you,  I  trow,  in  sentence  plain  and  short, 
Did  yet  behold  with  eye,  in  any  foreign  tongue, 
A  higher  verse,  a  statelier  style,  that  may  be  said  or  sung, 
Than  in  this  day  indeed,  our  English  verse  and  rhyme, 
The  grace  whereof  doth  touch  the  gods,  and  reach  the  clouds 
sometime." 

Poor  Tom  Churchyard  composed  these  verses  before 
Shakspeare  was  born  !  Spenser's  Fairy  Queen  was  pub 
lished  nineteen  years  after  his  death.  Almost  all  we  know 
of  English  poetry  (except  Chaucer's)  is  limited  to  that 
written  between  his  time  and  ours.  What  was  there  be 
fore  that  period  to  merit  such  encomiums  ?  Surely  it  is 
well  to  inquire.  Poor  Tom  Churchyard  ! — 


124  OLD    BOOKS. 

"  Poverty  and  Poetry  his  tomb  doth  inclose, 
Wherefore,  good  neighbours,  be  merry  in  prose." 

I  love  old  books.  Here  lies  a  folio  copy  in  three  vol 
umes,  of  Congreve,  a  matchless  specimen  of  typography  ; 
every  letter  distinct  and  delicate,  "  and  poured  round  all  " 
a  broad,  creamy  margin  of  immaculate  purity.  What  a 
commentary  upon  the  text  !  Licentious  Congreve  in  the 
vestments  of  chastity  !  —  There  is  a  sturdy  quarto.  Kun 
it  over.  Blackstone  !  with  marginal  pen  and  ink  notes  by 
Aaron  Burr.  What  is  this  underscored  ? 

"  In  a  land  of  liberty  it  is  extremely  dangerous  to  make  a  distinct 
order  of  the  profession  of  arms." 

u  Emulation,  or  virtuous  ambition  is  a  spring  of  action  which, 
however  dangerous  or  invidious  in  a  mere  republic,  or  under  a  des 
potic  sway,  will  certainly  be  attended  with  good  effects  under  a  free 
monarchy." 

On  the  title-page  is  inscribed, 


csj-ztfafTt. 


The  Blennerhassett  conspiracy  transpired  nine  years  after, 
in  1806.     Did  those  little  sentences  suggest  that,  or  was 


OLD   BOOKS.  125 

the  thought  latent  before  ?  It  seems  to  me  the  history 
of  Aaron  Burr  is  written  in  that  scratch  of  his  pen. 

Here,  resting  against  StrangforcTs  Camoens,  is  a  Keview 
of  the  text  of  Milton,  "  by  Dr.  Zachary  Pearce,  Bp.  of 
Rochester."  So  we  are  informed  by  an  autograph  in  pale 
ink,  in  Elia's  clerkly  hand.  How  carefully  this  book  was 
read  by  him  !  Not  an  error  of  the  printer  (and  there  are 
many)  but  what  is  corrected  ;  not  a  wrong  point,  comma, 
or  semicolon  (and  there  are  many)  but  what  is  amended. 
Incomparable  Elia  !  Gentle  Charles  Lamb  !  That  book 
is  dearer  to  me  than  the  most  sumptuous  edition  of  modern 
clays — even  including  mine  own  ! 

Methinks  D'Israeli,  in  his  Chapter  on  Prefaces,  might 
have  noticed  those  two  which  stand,  like  a  forlorn  hope,  in 
front  of  yonder  towering  volumes.  Sylvester  is  one — his 
commentator  wrote  the  other.  "  And  who  is  Sylvester  ?  " 
Gentle  reader  (I  take  it  you  are  a  lady),  doubtless  you 
have  read  Macaulay's  Battle  of  Ivry  ?  Du  Bartas,  a 

•  « 

French  knight  who  fought  under  Henry  of  Navarre  in  that 
battle,  laid  aside  his  sword,  after  the  fray,  to  tell  the  tale 
of  Ivry  with  his  pen.  He  also  wrote  "  The  Divine  Week/' 
both  of  which  were  translated  by  Joshua  Sylvester,  a 
famous  English  poet,  whose  works  were  thought  worthy 
of  encomiastic  verses  by  Ben  Jonson,  Daniel,  Davis  of 


126  OLD    BOOKS. 

Hereford,  and  many  other  eminent  writers  of  the  time  of 
King  James  I.  The  Divine  Week  is  the  first  rude  sketch 
of  Paradise  Lost.  Yonder  book  was  published  when  Mil 
ton  was  thirteen  years  old,  and  printed  in  the  very  street 
in  which  he  lived. 

"  Things  unattempted  yet  in  verse  or  prose," — 

forsooth  !  and  the  prefaces,  full  of  touching  appeals  to  a 
posterity  which,  as  yet,  has  scarcely  recognized  either  poet 
or  commentator. 

This  little  old  Bible  was  in  my  grandfather's  knapsack 
at  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill.  It  looks  as  though  it  had 
stood  the  brunt  of  the  fight.  Printed  in  1741,  by  Thomas 
Watkins,  one  of  his  Majesty's  printers,  to  which  is  added 
"  a  collection  of  Psalms,  Hymns  and  Spiritual  Songs,  for 
the  use,  edification  and  comfort  of  the  saints,  in  publick 
and  private,  especially  in  New  England."  The  Saints  of 

King  George  the  Second  were  canonized  by  King  George 

• 

the  Third.  Methinks  I  can  see  the  dissolute  soldiery  land 
ing  at  Moulton's  Point,  with  havoc  in  their  eyes  and  curses 
in  their  hearts,  marching  toward  that  redoubt,  to  be  swept 
down  by  the  steady  fire  of  the  New  England  saints,  who, 
had  they  been  as  well  provided  with  powder,  as  with  bibles, 
might  have  written  the  first  and  last  chapter  of  the  revo 
lution  on  the  bloody  page  of  Bunker  Hill,  June  I7tn, 


OLD   BOOKS.  127 

1775.  Beside  it,  clasped  in  a  kind  of  reverential  awe,  is 
"Nathaniel  Morton's  New  England's  Memorial,  1669  !" 

"  The  Mayflower's  Memories  of  the  brave  and  good  " — 

of  Bradford  and  Winslow,  and  Capt.  Miles  Standish,  as  he 
is  always  called,  and  the  rest,  touch  us  more  nearly  when 
we  know  that  book  was  handled  by  their  compeers.  Is  it 
not  like  rolling  back  the  curtain  of  a  great  drama,  to  think 
those  pages  were  lifted  from  the  first  printing-press  that 
crossed  the  Atlantic  ? 

"  Sonnets,  To  Sundry  Notes  of  Musicke,  by  Mr.  Wil 
liam  Shakespeare,"  in  shattered  sheepskin  !-•  What  can 
be  said  of  Mr.  William  Shakspeare  ?  If  his  commen 
tators  (including  Mr.  Verplanck,  the  most  learned,  as 
well  as  the  most  philosophical)  had  left  any  thing  to  be 
said,  that  stripling  volume  might  suggest  there  were  some 
things  of  Shakspeare  which  had  not  yet  found  their  way 
in  modern  editions.  Perhaps  my  short-sightedness  never 
discovered  them  therein  ?  Nevertheless,  I  have  searched 
diligently. 

Ked-letter  title-pages  !  Rubrics  of  the  past  century  ! 
Twelve  volumes  by  Dr.  Swift,  Dr.  Arbuthnot,  Mr.  Pope, 
and  Mr.  Gay  !  What  was  young  America  doing  when 
these  were  being  discussed  in  the  boxes  of  Will's  Coffee- 
House  ?  For  these  books  saw  the  light  three-quarters  of 


128  OLD    BOOKS. 

an  age  after  "  The  Memorial  of  Nathaniel  Morton,  Secre 
tary  to  the  Court  for  the  Jurisdiction  of  New  Plymouth/' 
\Vhat  was  young  America  doing,  while  Pope  was  writing 
the  Dunciad  ?  and  the  Mayflower  (the  ark  of  a  new  cove 
nant)  had  rotted  to  the  keelson,  perhaps  an  hundred  years 
before.  Settling  Georgia  !  Suffering  from  the  Choctaws  ! 
Receiving  that  distinguished  metaphysician,  Dr.  George 
Berkely,  afterward  Bishop  of  Cloyne  !  And  Swift — great 
political  economist,  amid-  the  parturient  throes  of  a  new 
world  writes—"  The  Power  of  Time." 

If  neither  brass  nor  marble  can  withstand 
The  mortal  force  of  Time's  destructive-  hand ; 
If  mountains  sink  to  vales,  if  cities  die, 
And  less'ning  rivers  mourn  their  fountains  dry : 
"  When  my  old  Cassock  "  (said  a  Welsh  divine) 
"  Is  out  at  elbows ;  why  should  I  repine  ?  " 

I  cannot  help  turning  to  this  old  volume  of  tracts  by 
the  Lord  Bishop  of  Cloyne,  containing  "Odes,"  "Thoughts 
on  Tar  Water,"  "  Essays  to  prevent  the  ruin  of  Great 
Britain,"  etc.,  to  quote  part  of  these  prophetic  lines  on 
"  the  prospect  of  planting  arts  and  learning  in  America." 

"  There  shall  be  sung  another  golden  age, 

The  rise  of  empire  and  of  arts, 
The  good  and  great  inspiring  epic  rage, 
The  wisest  heads  and  noblest  hearts. 


OLD    BOOKS.  129 

u  Not  such  as  Europe  breeds  in  her  decay ; 

Such  as  she  bred  when  fresh  and  young, 
When  heavenly  flame  did  animate  her  clay, 
By  future  poets  shall  be  sung. 

"  Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way ; 

The  four  first  acts  already  past, 
A  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day ; 
Time's  noblest  offspring  is  the  last." 


I  love  old  books.  Those  nine  volumes  of  Tristram 
Shandy,  which  stand  in  tarnished  gold,  like  the  slender 
pipes  of  some  Lilliputian  organ,  are  a  legend  and  a  mystery. 
Some  thirty  years  since  an  old  English  gentleman  came 
to  this  country  with  a  choice  collection  of  curious  books, 
among  which  (it  was  darkly  whispered)  there  were  many 
from  Sterne's  library.  These  were  part  of  that  collection, 
(gift  of  the  gifted  C.  L.  E.)  whose  various  dates  indicate, 
year  after  year,  the  progress  of  the  work.  Illustrated  too 
by  Hogarth's  own  hand  !  Thus  should  kindred  genius  go 
down  in  loving  companionship  to  posterity.  "  Fmgmenta 
Aurea"  of  Sir  John  Suckling  helps  fill  the  niche,  with 
Cotton,  Sedley,  Dorset,  Etherege,  Halifax,  and  Dr.  Donne. 
Rare  companions,  mad  wags,  airy,  pathetic,  gay,  tender, 
witty,  and  ludicrous  ;  jostling,  pious  John  Selden,  with  his 
mouth  full  of  aphorisms. 


130  OLD   BOOKS. 

"  Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat, 
Like  little  mice  stole  in  and  out, 

As  if  they  feared  the  light," 

sings  Sir  John  ;  and  his  neighbors,  lay  and  clerical, 
respond — 

(t  I  can  love  both  fair  and  brown ; 

Her  whom  abundance  melts,  and  her  whom  want  betrays ; 
Her  who  loves  loneness  best,  and  her  who  sports  and  plays ; 
Her  whom  the  country  formed,  and  whom  the  town ; 
Her  who  believes,  and  her  who  tries ; 
Her  who  still  weeps  with  spongy  eyes, 
And  her  who  is  dry  cork,  and  never  cries." 

Samuel  Daniel  clasps  his  brown  wings  below  in  mute 
sympathy  with  the  melancholy  Cowley.  "  Samuel — Dan 
iel/'  why  should  he  not  bear  the  names  of  two  prophets  ? 

For  when  the  oracles  are  dumb 
Poets  prophetical  become. 

I  love  old  books.  The  yellow  leaves  spread  out  before 
me  as  a  ripened  field,  and  I  go  along — gleaning — like 
Ruth  in  the  sunny  fields  of  Bethlehem.  Yet  I  would  not 
have  too  many.  Large  libraries,  from  the  huge  folios  at 
the  base  (grim  Titans),  rearing  aloft,  to  the  small  volumes 
on  the  upper  shelves,  a  ponderous  pyramid  of  lore,  oppress 
the  brain.  When  I  look  round  upon  my  shining  cohorts — 
the  old  imperial  guard  of  English  literature  (with  sundry 


OLD    BOOKS.  131 

conscripts,  promoted  to  the  front  ranks) — I*  feel,  with 
honest  pride,  how  jealous  I  am  that  none  appear  unwor 
thy  of  such  company.  So  is  it  with  friends.  We  like  a 
small  and  choice  collection.  After  these  come  books.  A 
friend  is  worth  twenty  libraries,  yet  I  hate  to  lose  one 
book  with  whom  I  have  been  familiar  many  years.  I 
have  not  yet  forgiven  the  Curate,  Master  Barber,  arid  the 
Housekeeper,  for  destroying 

"  Amadis  de  Gaul, 

Th'  Esplandians,  Arthurs,  Palmerins,  and  all 
The  learned  library  of  Don  Quixote  :  " 

that  choice  little  anthology  of  rare  flowers. 

New  books  (unbending  vestals)  require  too  much  labor 
in  the  wooing  ;  and  to  go  armed  with  an  ivory  spatula, 
like  a  short,  Koman  sword,  piercing  one's  way  through 
the  spongy  leaves  of  an  uncut  volume,  is  an  abomination. 
An  old  book  opens  generously  ;  spreading  out  its  arms,  as 
it  were,  "  wi'  a  Highland  welcome  ; "  giving 

"  the  whole  sum 

Of  errant  knighthood,  with  the  dames  and  dwarfs ; 
The  charmed  boats,  and  the  enchanted  wharfs, 
The  Tristrams,  Lanc'lots,  Turpins,  and  the  Peers, 
All  the  mad  Kolands,  and  sweet  Olivers  ; 
To  Merlin's  marvels,  and  his  Cabal's  loss, 
With  the  chimera  of  the  Rosie  Cross  ; 


132  OLD    BOOKS. 

Their  seals,  their  characters,  hermetic  rings, 
Their  jem  of  riches,  and  bright  stone1  that  brings 
Invisibility,  and  strength,  and  tongues." 

Yet  a  young  book,  at  times,  is  worth  the  wooing.  I 
have  seen  such,  growing  up  under  mine  own  eyes  ;  which 
reminds  me  of  a  friend  of  mine,  who  once  dandled  that 
upon  his  knee  which  afterward  became  his  wife. 

I  have  an  ancient  manuscript .     But  I  forbear. 

When  I  open  an  old  volume,  and  hear  the  words  of 
wisdom  from  the  lips  of  age  ;  listening,  as  it  were,  to  "  a 
voice  crying  from  the  ground/'  methinks  it  is  as  the  sound 
of  a  midnight  wind  sighing  through  the  branches  of  an 
oak — a  .hoary  centenarian  !  Ah,  reader  !  keep  to  thy 
books  ;  especially  old  books  !  They  are  like  the  pool  of 
Bethesda,  healing  and  comforting.  In  the  words  of  quaint 
Burton,  I  take  leave  of  thee  ; 

"  For  if  thou  dost  not  ply  thy.  books, 

By  candle-light  to  study  bent, 
Employed  about  some  honest  thing, 
Envy,  or  love,  shall  thee  torment." 


.  I 


A    BABYLONISH    DITTY. 


"1TORE  than  several  years  have  faded,  since  my  heart  was  first  in 
vaded, 
By  a  brown-skinned,  gray-eyed  siren,  on  the  merry  old  "  South 

Side;" 

Where  the  mill-flume  cataracts  glisten,  and  the  agile  blue-fish  listen 
To  the  fleet  of  phantom  schooners  floating  on  the  weedy  tide. 


134  A    BABYLONISH    DITTY. 

Tis  the  land  of  rum  and  romance,  for  the  old  South  Bay  is  no  man's, 
But  belongs  (as  all  such  places  should  belong)  to  Uncle  Sam  ; 

There  you'll  see  the  amorous  plover,  and  the  woodcock  in  the  cover, 
And  the  silky  trout  all  over,  underneath  the  water-dam. 

There  amid  the  sandy  reaches,  in  among  the  pines  and  beeches, 
Oaks,  and  various  other  kinds  of  old  primeval  forest  trees, 

Did  we  wander  in  the  noonlight,  or  beneath  the  silver  moonlight, 
While  in  ledges  sighed  the  sedges  to  the  salt  salubrious  breeze. 

Oh !  I  loved  her  as  a  sister — often,  often  times  I  kissed  her, 

Holding  prest  against  my  vest  her  slender,  soft,  seductive  hand ; 

Often  by  my  midnight  taper,  filled  at  least  a  quire  of  paper 

With  some  graphic  ode,  or  sapphic,  "  To  the  nymph  of  Babyland.'T 

Oft  we  saw  the  dim  blue  highlands,  Coney,  Oak,  and  other  islands, 
(Moles  that  dot  the  dimpled  bosom  of  the  sunny  summer  sea,) 

Or  'mid  polished  leaves  of  lotus,  whereso  'er  our  skiff  would  float  us, 
Anywhere,  where  none  could  notice,  there  we  sought  alone  to  be. 

Thus  till  summer  was  senescent,  and  the  woods  were  iridescent, 
Dolphin  tints,  and  hectic-hints  of  what  was  shortly  coming  on, 

Did  I  worship  Amy  Milton,  fragile  was  the  faith  I  built  on, 
Then  we  parted ;  broken-hearted,  I,  when  she  left  Babylon. 

As  upon  the  moveless  water  lies  the  motionless  frigata, 

Flings  her  spars  and  spidery  outlines  lightly  on  the  lucid  plain, 

Bat  whene'er  the  fresh  breeze  bloweth,  to  more  distant  oceans  goeth, 
Never  more  the  old  haunt  knoweth,  never  more  returns  again — 


A    BABYLONISH    DITTY.  135 

So  is  woman  evanescent ;  shifting  with  the  shifting  present ; 

Changing  like  the  changing  tide,  and  faithless  as  the  fickle  sea  ; 
Lighter  than  the  wind-blown  thistle  ;  falser  than  the  fowler's  whistle 

Was  that  coaxing  piece  of  hoaxing — Amy  Milton's  love  to  me : 

Yes,  thou  transitory  bubble !  floating  on  this  sea  of  trouble, 

Though  the  sky  be  bright  above  thee,  soon  will  sunny  days  be  gone ; 

Then  when  thou'rt  by  all  forsaken,  will  thy  bankrupt  heart  awaken 
To  those  golden  days  of  olden  times  in  happy  Babylon  ! 


THE    FIEST    O  YSTEE-EATEK. 


rilHE  impenetrable  veil  of  antiquity  hangs  over  the  ante 
diluvian  oyster,  but  the  geological  finger-post  points 
to  the  testifying  fossil.  We  might,  in  pursuing  this  sub 
ject,  sail  upon  the  broad  pinions  of  conjecture  into  the  re 
mote,  or  flutter  with  lighter  wings  in  the  regions  of  fable, 
but  it  is  unnecessary  :  the  mysterious  pages  of  Nature  are 
ever  opening  freshly  around  us,  and  in  her  stony  volumes, 
amid  the  calcareous  strata,  we  behold  the  precious  mollusc 
—  the  primeval  bivalve, 

-  "  rock-ribbed  !  and  ancient  as  the  sun."—  BRYANT. 

Yet,  of  its  early  history  we  know  nothing.  Etymolo 
gy  throws  but  little  light  upon  the  matter.  In  vain  have 
we  carried  our  researches  into  the  vernacular  of  the  maritime 


138  THE    FIRST    OYSTER-EATER. 

Phoenicians,  or  sought  it  amid  the  fragments  of  Chaldean 
and  Assyrian  lore.  To  no  purpose  have  we  analyzed  the 
roots  of  the  comprehensive  Hebrew,  or  lost  ourselves  in  the 
baffling  labyrinths  of  the  oriental  Sanscrit.  The  history 
of  the  ancient  oyster  is  written  in  no  language,  except  in 
the  universal  idiom  of  the  secondary  strata  !  Nor  is  this  sur 
prising  in  a  philosophical  point  of  view.  Setting  aside  the 
pre-Adamites,  and  taking  Adam  as  the  first  name-giver, 
when  we  reflect,  that  Adam  lived  iN-land,  and  therefore 
never  saw  the  succulent  periphery  in  its  native  mud,  we 
may  deduce  this  reasonable  conclusion  :  viz.,  that  as  he 
never  saw  it,  he  probably  never  NAMED  it — never  ! — not 
even  to  his  most  intimate  friends.  Such  being  the  case, 
we  must  seek  for  information  in  a  later  and  more  enlighten 
ed  age.  And  here  let  me  take  occasion  to  remark,  that 
oysters  and  intelligence  are  nearer  allied  than  many  persons 
imagine.  The  relations  between  Physiology  and  Psychol 
ogy  are  beginning  to  be  better  understood.  A  man  might 
be  scintillant  with  facetiousness  over  a  plump  "  Shrewsbury," 
who  would  make  a  very  sorry  figure  over  a  bowl  of  water- 
gruel.  The  gentle,  indolent  Brahmin,  the  illiterate  Lap- 
lander,  the  ferocious  Libyan,  the  mercurial  Frenchman,  and 
the  stolid  (I  beg  your  pardon),  the  stalwart  Englishman, 
are  not  more  various  in  their  mental  capacities  than  in 


THE    FIRST    OYSTER-EATER.  139 

their  table  aesthetics.  And  even  in  this  Century,  we  see 
that  wit  and  oysters  come  in  together  with  September,  and 
wit  and  oysters  go  out  together  in  May — a  circumstance 
not  without  its  weight,  and  peculiarly  pertinent  to  the  sub 
ject-matter.  With  this  brief  but  not  irrelevant  digression, 
I  will  proceed.  We  have  "  Ostreum "  from  the  Latins, 
"  Oester "  from  the  Saxons,  "  Auster "  from  the  Teutons, 
"  Ostra  "  from  the  Spaniards,  and  "  Huitre"  from  the  French 
— words  evidently  of  common  origin — threads  spun  from 
the  same  distaff !  And  here  our  archaeology  narrows  to  a 
point,  and  this  point  is  the  pearl  we  are  in  search  of:  viz., 
the  genesis  of  this  most  excellent  fish. 

"Words  evidently  derived  from  a  common  origin/' 
What  origin  ?  Let  us  examine  the  venerable  page  of  his 
tory.  Where  is  the  first  mention  made  of  oysters  ?  Hu- 
dibras  says  : 

•"  the  Emperor  Caligula, 

Who  triumphed  o'er  the  British  seas, 

Took  crabs  and  "  OYSTEES"  prisoners  (mark  that !) 

And  lobsters,  'stead  of  cuirassiers  ; 

Engaged  his  legions  in  fierce  bustles 

With  periwinkles,  prawns,  and  muscles, 

And  led  his  troops  with  furious  gallops, 

To  charge  whole  regiments  of  scallops ; 

Not,  like  their  ancient  way  of  war, 

To  wait  on  his  triumphal  car, 


140  THE    FIRST    OYSTER-EATER. 

But  when  he  went  to  dine  or  sup, 
More  bravely  ate  his  captives  up ; 
Leaving  all  war  by  his  example, 
Reduced — to  vict'ling  of  a  camp  well." 

This  is  the  first  mention  in  the  classics  of  oysters  ;  and 
we  now  approach  the  cynosure  of  our  inquiry.  From  this 
we  infer  that  oysters  came  originally  from  Britain.  The 
word  is  unquestionably  primitive.  The  broad  open  vowel- 
ly  sound  is,  beyond  a  doubt,  the  primal,  spontaneous 
thought  that  found  utterance  when  the  soft,  seductive 
mollusc  first  exposed  its  white  bosom  in  its  pearly  shell  to 
the  enraptured  gaze  of  aboriginal  man  !  Is  there  a  ques 
tion  about  it  ?  Does  not  every  one  know,  when  he  sees  an 
oyster,  that  that  is  its  name  ?  And  hence  we  reason  that 
it  originated  in  Britain,  was  latinized  by  the  Eomans,  re- 
plevined  by  the  Saxons,  corrupted  by  the  Teutons,  and 
finally  barbecued  by  the  French.  Oh,  philological  ladder  by 
which  we  mount  upward,  until  we  emerge  beneath  the 
clear  vertical  light  of  Truth  !  !  Methinks  I  see  the  FIRST 
OYSTER-EATER  1  A  brawny,  naked  savage,  with  his  wild 
hair  matted  over  his  wild  eyes,  a  zodiac  of  fiery  stars  tattoo 
ed  across  Ins  muscular  breast — unclad,  unsandalled,  hirsute 
and  hungry — he  breaks  through  the  underwoods  that  mar 
gin  the  beach,  and  stands  alone  upon  the  sea-shore,  with 


THE    FIRST    OYSTER-EATER.  141 

nothing  in  one  hand  but  his  unsuccessful  boar-spear;  and 
nothing  in  the  other  but  his  fist.  There  he  beholds  a 
splendid  panorama  !  The  west  all  a-glow  ;  the  conscious 
waves  blushing  as  the  warm  sun  sinks  to  their  embraces  ; 
the  blue  sea  on  his  left  ;  the  interminable  forest  on  his 
right ;  and  the  creamy  sea-sand  curving  in  delicate  tracery 
between.  A  Picture  and  a  Child  of  Nature  !  Delighted 
ly  he  plunges  in  the.  foam,  and  swims  to  the  bald  crown  of 
a  rock  that  uplifts  itself  above  the  waves.  Seating  himself 
he  gazes  upon  the  calm  expanse  beyond,  and  swings  his 
legs  against  the  moss  that  spins  its  filmy  tendrils  in  the 
brine.  Suddenly  he  utters  a  cry  ;  springs  up  ;  the  blood 
streams  from  his  foot.  With  barbarous,  fury  he  tears  up 
masses  of  sea  moss,  and  with  it  clustering  families  of  tes- 
tacea.  Dashing  them  down  upon  the  rock,  he  perceives  a 
liquor  exuding  from  the  fragments  ;  he  sees  the  white  pul 
py  delicate  morsel  half-hidden  in  the  cracked  shell,  and  in 
stinctively  reaching  upward,  his  hand  finds  mouth,  and 
amidst  a  savage,  triumphant  deglutition,  he  murmurs — 
OYSTER  !  !  Champing,  in  his  uncouth  fashion,  bits  of  shell 
and- sea- weed,  with  uncontrollable  pleasure  he  masters  this 
mystery  of  a  new  sensation,  and  not  until  the  gray  veil  of 
night  is  drawn  over  the  distant  waters,  does  he  leave  the 
rock,  covered  with  the  trophies  of  his  victoiy. 


142  THE    FIRST    OYSTER-EATER. 

We  date  from  this  epoch  the  maritime  history  of  Eng 
land.  Ere  long,  the  reedy  cabins  of  her  aborigines  cluster 
ed  upon  the  banks  of  beautiful  inlets,  and  overspread  her 
long  lines  of  level  beaches  ;  or  pencilled  with  delicate 
wreaths  of  smoke  the  savage  aspect  of  her  rocky  coasts. 
The  sword  was  beaten  into  the  oyster-knife,  and  the  spear 
into  oyster  rakes.  Commerce  spread  her  white  wings 
along  the  shores  of  happy  Albion,  and  man  emerged  at 
once  into  civilization  from  a  nomadic  state.  From  this 
people  arose  the  mighty  nation  of  Ostrogoths  ;  from  the 
Ostraphagi  of  ancient  Britain  came  the  custom  of  Ostracism 
— that  is,  sending  political  delinquents  to  that  place  where 
they  can  get  no  more  oysters. 

There  is  a  strange  fatality  attending  all  discoverers.  Our 
Briton  saw  a  mighty  change  come  over  his  country — a  change 
beyond  the  reach  of  memoiy  or  speculation.  Neighboring 
tribes,  formerly  hostile,  were  now  linked  together  in  bonds 
of  amity.  A  sylvan,  warlike  people  had  become  a  peace 
ful,  piscivorous  community  ;  and  he  himself,  once  the  low 
est  of  his  race,  was  now  elevated  above  the  dreams  of  his  am 
bition.  He  stood  alone  upon  the  sea-shore,  looking  to\wd 
the  rock,  which,  years  ago,  had  been  his  stepping-stone  to 
power,  and  a  desire  to  revisit  it  came  over  him.  He  stands 
now  upon  it.  The  season,  the  hour,  the  westerly  sky,  re- 


THE    FIRST    OYSTER-EATER.  143 

mind  him  of  former  times.  He  sits  and  meditates.  Sud 
denly  a  flush  of  pleasure  overspreads  his  countenance ;  for 
there  just  below  the  flood,  he  sees  a  gigantic  bivalve — 
alone — with  mouth  agape,  as  if  yawning  with  very  weari 
ness  at  the  solitude  in  which  it  found  itself.  What  I  am 
about  to  describe  may  be  untrue.  But  I  believe  it.  I 
have  heard  of  the  waggish  propensities  of  oysters.  I  have 
known  them,  from  mere  humor,  to  clap  suddenly  upon  a  rat's 
tail  at  night ;  and,  what  with  the  squeaking  and  the  clat 
ter,  we  verily  thought  the  devil  had  broke  loose  in  the 
cellar.  Moreover,  I  am  told  upon  another  occasion,  when 
a  demijohn  of  brandy  had  burst,  a  large  "  Blue-pointer  "  was 
found,  lying  in  a  little  pool  of  liquor,  just  drunk  enough  to 
be  careless  of  consequences — opening  and  shutting  his 
shells  with  a  "  devil-may-care "  air,  as  if  he  didn't  value 
anybody  a  brass  farthing,  but  was  going  to  be  as  noisy  as 
he  possibly  could. 

But  to  return.  When  our  Briton  saw  the  oyster  in 
this  defenceless  attitude,  he  knelt  down,  and  gradually 
reaching  his  arm  toward  it,  he  suddenly  thrust  his  fingers 
in  the  aperture,  and  the  oyster  closed  upon  them  with  a  spas 
modic  snap  !  In  vain  the  Briton  tugged  and  roared ;  he 
might  as  well  have  tried  to  uproot  the  solid  rock  as  to 
move  that  oyster  !  In  vain  he  called  upon  all  his  heathen 


144  THE    FIRST    OYSTER-EATER. 

gods — Grog  and  Magog — elder  than  Woden  and  Thor  ; 
and  with  huge,  uncouth,  druidical  d — ns  consigned  all 
shell-fish  to  Nidhogg,  Hela,  and  the  submarines.  Bivalve 
held  on  with  "a  will."  It  was  nuts  for  him  certainly. 
Here  was  a  great,  lubberly,  chuckle-headed  fellow,  the  de 
stroyer  of  his  tribe,  with  his  fingers  in  chancery,  and  the 
tide  rising  !  A  fellow  who  had  thought,  like  ancient  Pis 
tol,  to  make  the  world  his  oyster,  and  here  was  the  oyster 
making  a  world  of  him.  Strange  mutation  !  The  poor 
Briton  raised  his  eyes  :  there  were  the  huts  of  his  people  ; 
he  could  even  distinguish  his  own,  with  its  slender  spiral  of 
smoke  ;  they  were  probably  preparing  a  roast  for  him  ; 
how  he  detested  a  roast !  Then  a  thought  of  his  wife,  his 
little  ones  awaiting  him,  tugged  at  his  heart.  The  waters 
rose  around  him.  He  struggled,  screamed  in  his  anguish ; 
but  the  remorseless  winds  dispersed  the  sounds,  and  ere  the 
evening  moon  arose  and  flung  her  white  radiance  upon  the 
placid  waves,  the  last  billow  had  rolled  over  the  FIRST  OYS 
TER-EATER  ! 

I  purpose  at  some  future  time  to  show  the  relation  ex 
isting  between  wit  and  oysters.  It  is  true  that  Chaucer  (a 
poet  of  considerable  promise  in  the  fourteenth  century)  has 
alluded  to  the  oyster  in  rather  a  disrespectful  manner  ;  and 
the  learned  Du  Bartas  (following  the  elder  Pliny)  hath  ac- 


THE    FIRST    OYSTER-EATER.  145 

cused  this  modest  bivalve  of  "  being  incontinent/'  a  charge 
wholly  without  foundation,  for  there  is  not  a  more  chaste 
and  innocent  fish  in  the  world.  But  the  rest  of  our  poets 
have  redeemed  it  from  these  foul  aspersions  in  numberless 
passages,  among  which  we  find  Shakspeare's  happy  allu 
sion  to 

u  Rich  honesty  dwelling  in  a  POOR  house." 

And  no  one  now,  I  presume,  will  pretend  to  deny,  that 
it  hath  been  always  held 

"  Great  in  mouths  of  wisest  censure ! " 

In  addition  to  a  chapter  on  wit  and  oysters,  I  also  may 
make  a  short  digression  touching  cockles. 


AN    EVENING    EEVEEY 

I  BEAD  in  some  old  book  of  mystic  lore  : 
One  of  those  y em-books,  all  illumined  o'er 
With  vermeil  flowers  and  azure  buds,  embraced 
In  latticed  gold  around  the  margin  laced  ; 


148  AN   EVENING   REVERT. 

Stuffed  with  strong  words,  and  quaint  conceits — I  fear 
Not  over  tuneful  they  to  gentle  lady's  ear : 

To  some,  not  all ;  for  seated  at  thy  feet, 
Methinks  I  might  that  same  harsh  text  repeat, 
And  even  win  thy  smile  ;  which  like  the  sun, 
Sheds  life  and  light  o'er  all  it  looks  upon  ; 
But  to  begin  again  "the  book,"  ah  me  ! 
I  cannot  think  of  it ;  my  thoughts  are  all  of  thee  ! 

Have  patience  ;  well  then,  thus  :  it  was  my  hap 
To  read  a  story  of  a  wondrous  cap, 
"  Old  Fortunatus",  and  the  tale  doth  say 
That  when  he  would  at  once  be  far  away 
From  where  he  was,  'twas  but  to  don  the  hood, 
And  wish — and  straight  it  chanced  he  was  where'er  he  would. 

Thus  far  I  read,  and  folding  down  the  place, 
I  sighed  and  wished  mine  were  Fortunio's  case, 
Or  that  some  fairy  would  bestow  the  prize, 
So  I  might  spurn  the  earth  and  cleave  the  skies, 
Uplifted  high  as  the  dizzy  heavens  be, 
Then  downward  speed  to  earth,  and  heaven  again,  and  thee  ! 

So  sitting  in  the  lamp-light's  pensive  gloom, 
Methought  sweet  perfumes  floated  in  the  room, 
Link  after  link  of  revery's  golden  chain 
Stretched  o'er  the  waste  that  lay  between  us  twain  ; 


AN    EVENING    REVERY.  149 

Tumultuous  raptures  every  fibre  thrilled 
With  love  intense.     And  lo  !  I  found  the  wish  fulfilled  ! 

I  was  with  thee  !  thy  presence  filled  the  place, 
And  I  was  standing  gazing  on  thy  face  ; 
Near  thee,  yet  sad,  my  spirit  seemed  to  wait, 
Like  the  lorn  Peri  at  the  golden  gate  ; 
But  with  averted  look  you  turned  to  part, 
And  then  methought  the  pulse  had  stopped  within  my  heart. 

I  saw  thee  lift  the  dew-drooped  roses  up, 
I  saw  thee  raise  the  lily's  pearled  cup, 
I  marked  the  loving  tendrils  round  thee  cling, 
And  high  above  the  wild-bird's  welcoming  ; 
The  very  sky  thy  presence  bent  to  greet, 
The  very  sunshine  seemed  as  if  'twould,  kiss  thy  feet. 

Then  with  a  sigh  I  spake  :  "And  has  thy  heart 
For  me  not  left  one  little  nook  apart, 
One  shaded,  secret  spot,  where  I  may  come 
And  comfort  find — and  peace  ;  and  call  it — home  ? 
Hast  thou,  in  pity,  none  ?  or  must  my  fate 
Still  be  to  wander  on,  unloved  and  desolate  ?  " 

Unanswered,  back  my  fainting  spirit  flew  ; 
O'er  the  broad  page  the  flowery  fretwork  grew  : 


150  AN    EVENING    REVERY. 

The  lamp  waxed  bright,  the  crabbed  text  appeared, 
And  old  Fortuuio,  with  his  silver  beard, 
Gleamed  in  the  marge  amid  th'  emblazoned  flowers, 
While  from  mine  eyes  fell  tears  like  parting  April  showers. 


ON  THE   HABITS   OF  IRISHMEN. 

"  In  what  part  of  her  body  stands  Ireland  ?  v— SHAKSPEAKE. 

rPHE  Green  island  of  Erin,  which  should  more  properly 
be  called  the  Ked  island  of  Ire,  is  situated  off  the 
northwest  coast  of  England.  It  is  about  two  hundred 
and  seventy-eight  miles  in  length,  by  one  hundred  and 
fifty-five  in  breadth,  differing  therein  from  the  brogue  of 
the  country,  which  is  as  broad  as  it  is  long.  It  is  inhab 
ited  by  a  race  known  familiarly  as  Irishmen.  Its  principal 
exports  are  linens,  whiskey,  and  emigrants,  the  two  latter 
usually  going  together,  the  former  by  itself.  It  is  also 
famous  for  its  breed  of  bulls,  specimens  of  which,  pontifi 
cal  and  otherwise,  may  be  found  in  any  history  of  Erin  : 


Ireland  is  also  celebrated  for  its  wit  and  poverty  :  two 


152  ON    THE    HABITS    OF   IRISHMEN. 

words  which  have  become  synonyms  in  almost  every  lan 
guage.  Its  cleanliness  is  proverbial,  the  very  pigs  being  as 
clean,  if  not  cleaner,  than  their  owners ;  while  in  regard 
to  honesty,  we  are  assured  by  Swift  "  that  the  children 
seldom  pick  up  a  livelihood  by  stealing  until  they  arrive 
at  six  years  old  ; "  although  he  confesses  they  get  the 
rudiments  much  earlier.  The  cultivation  of  vegetables 
is  an  object  of  national  interest  in  Ireland,  especially  the 
shamrock  and  shillelah  ;  the  latter,  in  fact,  may  be  seen 
flourishing  all  over  the  island.  As  to  vermin,  if  there  be 
any  truth  in  history,  St.  Patrick  gave  them  their  quietus 
in  the  year  526  ;  then,  or  thenabout  :  I  am  not  critical 
as  to  the  exact  date,  but  a  traditional  something  to  that 
effect  has  been  running  in  every  Irishman's  head  since  the 
epoch  of  the  Saint's  visit  in  that  century. 

Ireland  is  also  famous  for  sobriety,  although  the  Maine 
Law  has  not  yet  been  introduced :  "for  how,"  says  Pat, 
"  can  we  have  a  '  Maine  Law '  upon  an  island  ?  Besides, 
we  could  only  carry  it  out  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet, 
which  would  be  the  biggest  bull  poor  Paddy  ever  yet 
made  in  the  way  of  philanthropy  ! "  But  there  is  another 
reason.  It  is  embodied  in  a  legend  of  St.  Patrick,  and  a 
legend  with  an  Irishman  is  as  good  as  an  axiom  with  a 
mathematician.  It  is  this  : — 


ON    THE    HABITS    OF    IRISHMEN. 

"  You  have  heard,  I  suppose,  long  ago, 

How  the  snakes  in  a  manner  most  antic 
He  thrapsed  afther  the  pipes  to  Mayo, 

And  then  drown'd  them  all  in  the  Atlantic ! 
Hence,  not  to  use  wather  for  drink 

The  good  people  of  Ireland  detarmine, 
And  with  mighty  good  reason,  I  think, 

Since  St.  PIIADEICK  has  filled  it  with  varmin, 
And  vipers,  and  other  such  stuff !  " 


Perhaps  no  people  in  the  world  possess  more  of  the 
"amor  patrice"  than  the  inhabitants  of  this  interesting 
country.  Thousands  come  to  our  shores  every  week  who 
would  live  or  die  for  ould  Ireland,  but  who  would  neither 
live  nor  die  in  ould  Ireland  :  it  being  a  notion  with  Pat 
that  the  best  way  to  enjoy  himself  at  home  is  by  going 
abroad.  This  patriotic  and  philosophical  sentiment  has 
been  sometimes  emulated  in  the  land  of  the  free  and  the 
home  of  the  brave. 

In  foreign  climes  two  arts,  two  sciences,  engage  the 
attention  of  the  Hibernian  :  Horticulture  and  Architec 
ture.  Passing  along  the  streets,  the  spectator  is  struck 
with  facades  of  beautiful  buildings  in  process  of  erection, 
adorned  with  picturesque  Paddies  in  alto  relievo,  or  beholds 
them  swarming  on  domes  like  bees,  excavating  like  moles, 
bridging  and  damming  like  beavers,  and  like 


154  ON    THE    HABITS    OF    IRISHMEN. 

a  The  bird  of  summer 
The  temple-haunting  martlet," 

approving  "  each  jutty,  frieze,  buttress,  and  coign  of  van 
tage,  by  his  loved  mansionry."  "  Where  they  most  breed 
and  haunt  (says  Shakspeare)  I  have  observed  the  air  is 
delicate  ! " 

Horticulture  is  a  passion  with  Paddy.  It  is  himself 
that  makes  his  way  through  the  world  with  Pomona  in  his 
arms.  Strip  him  of  his  hoe,  cast  his  hod  to  the  winds,  let 
every  rung  of  his  ambitious  ladder  be  scattered  to  the  cor 
ners  of  the  earth,  and  Pat  has  still  a  resource.  See  him 
laden  with  golden  oranges,  with  fragrant  bananas,  with 
cocoa-nuts  that  resemble  his  own  head  when  clipped  with 
the  sheep-shears,  with  embossed  and  spiky  pines  !  Not 
indigenous,  but  tropical  fruits ;  exotics,  like  himself.  And 
did  any  living  being  ever  see  him  eat  a  fruit  ?  Never  ! 
To  him  they  are  sacred.  As  well  might  you  persuade  the 
circumcised  Levite  to  eat  the  shew-bread. 

Pat  believes  in  the  usefulness  of  meat,  but  was  there 
ever  seen  an  Irish  butcher  ?  His  tender  disposition  pre 
vents  him  trafficking  in  his  household  gods.  He  is  more 
than  a  Brahmin  in  that  respect.  If  you  live  in  the  coun 
try  and  lose  your  cow,  or  a  favorite  ram  stray  from  the 
fold,  look  for  it  among  your  Irish  neighbors.  In  those 


ON    THE    HABITS    OF    IRISHMEN.  155 

rude  cottages,  displaying  on  their  outer  walls  the  ragged 
ensigns  of  poverty,  is  hidden  the  jewel  of  charity.  From 
pure  compassion  your  lo,  or  Aries,  has  probably  been  shel 
tered  in  the  most  comfortable  and  secluded  part  of  some 
Irishman's  barn. 

Irish  mechanics  are  not  common.  To  be  sure  there  are 
tailors  and  shoemakers  who  speak  the  language  of  Brian 
Borheime,  but  they  puzzle  not  their  heads  with  more  ab 
struse  and  scientific  mechanical  pursuits.  Many  as  we  find 
perishing  annually  by  steamboat  and  railroad  disasters,  no 
Hibernian  has  ever  bethought  himself  of  any  thing  to  pre 
vent  the  explosion  of  boilers.  If  he  did,  in  all  probability 
he  would  get  it  on  the  wrong  end,  and  make  matters  worse 
instead  of  better.  Whether  it  arise  from  his  haughty 
Spanish  or  Scythian  blood,  I  know  not,  but  Pat  has  never 
made  one  useful  invention  since  the  beginning  of  the 
world  :  and  in  calamities  like  the  above,  as  he  has  done 
nothing  for  his  fellows,  his  loss  is  not  considered  as  a  pub 
lic  disaster :  they  give  a  list  of  the  rest  of  the  sufferers, 
and  the  Paddies  are  usually  thrown  in. 

I  am  inclined  to  believe  Pat  will  find  "Stame"  a  more 
powerful  antagonist  than  his  present  ally,  and  enemy, 
England.  To  be  sure  he  is  often  found  on  the  track  of 
improvements,  but  the  ratio  of  his  velocity  is  not  in  pro- 


156  ON    THE    HABITS    OF    IRISHMEN. 

portion  to  the  square  of  the  distance.  The  consequence  is 
an  affair  with  the  cow-catcher,  in  which  he  usually  conies 
off  second  best.  This  however  might  be  easily  obviated  1  »y 
keeping  outside  the  rails  ;  but  his  ruthless  enemy,  like  tlu- 
grini  Afrite  in  the  eastern  tale,  ever  assumes  new  shapes, 
the  most  formidable  of  which  is  the  most  recent.  Staim 
enters  the  arena,  with  a  mighty  pair  of  arms  and  a  might y 
shovel,  in  the  shape  of  an  excavator  !  How  can  a  real 
Paddy  compete  with  a  .^eow-paddy  ?  One  convulsive 
throb  of  the  iron  muscles,  and  a  ton  of  earth  drops  from 
the  enormous  spade  ! 

I  have  touched  on,  or  rather  hinted  at,  two  virtues 
peculiar  to  Patrick — honesty  and  sobriety  :  but  there  is 
yet  an  unnamed  virtue  belonging  to  him,  which  everybody 
will  recognize.  It  is  his  modesty.  An  Irish  blush  is  the 
most  cunning  sleight  of  Nature's  hand. 


LA    BELLA    ENTRISTECID  A. 

RENDERED  FROM  THE  SPANISH   OF  J.  Q.  SUZARTE. 

PRETTY  Nina,  why  this  sorrow 

In  thy  life's  auspicious  morning  ? 
Must  thy  cheek  its  paleness  borrow 
From  the  ashen  hues  of  sorrow, 

When  thy  youth's  bright  day  is  dawning  ? 

Why  with  hidden  ill  repineth 

That  pure  virgin  heart  of  thine  ? 
Heart  where  grace  and  love  combineth, 
Free  from  stain,  as  star  that  shineth 

Through  the  azure  crystalline. 

Why  should  eyes  like  thine  be  shrouded 

In  their  tearful  radiate  fringes  ? 
Eyes,  whose  brightness  when  unclouded 


158  LA    BELLA    ENTRISTECIDA. 

Shineth  like  the  moon  unshrouded, 
When  her  beams  the  lakelet  tinges. 

Thou,  in  thy  sweet  pensive  dolor, 

Still  more  beauteous  seem'st  to  me  : 
Ah,  I  see  the  truant  color 
Chase  the  gloomy  shades  of  dolor 
From  my  bright  divinity  ! 

Tranquil  in  thy  peace  thou  sleepest, 

While  those  waxen-lidded  eyes 
Closed  upon  the  world  thou  keepest, 
And  thy  soul  in  rapture  steepest 
With  the  angel  melodies. 

In  thy  tender  heart  are  blended 

• 

Sinless  grief,  and  resignation 
Calm  and  placid  :  though  unfriended, 
Soon  thy  suffering  will  be  ended, 

Soon  restored  thy  animation. 

In  thy  cheek  the  lucid  blushes 
Will  return  to  embellish  all ; 
Soon  thy  lily  forehead  flushes 
Underneath  the  rosy  blushes 
Of  the  virgin  coronal. 


LA    BELLA    ENTRISTECIDA.  159 

What  from  grief  brings  ever  pleasure  ? 

What  content,  from  woe  and  pain  ? 
What  turns  losses  into  treasure, 
Bringing  blisses  without  measure 

To  the  sorrowed  heart  again  ? 

i  Hope  ! '  my  'Nina — ( Hope/  beloved  ! 

Beautiful,  beneficent, 
Lo  !  your  griefs  are  soon  removed, 
Lo  !  your  faith  and  virtue  proved, 

And  the  bitter  woe  is  spent. 


ON    THE    HABITS    OF    SCOTCHMEN 


'Where  Scotland?" 

'I  found  it  by  the  barrenness,  hard  in  the  palm  of  the  hand." — SHAKSPEARE. 
"  Quid  immerentes  hospites  vexas  canis  ?  "— HORACE. 


Q  GOTLAND,  or  North  Britain,  is  a  vast  country,  not 
?  quite  so  large  as  Ireland.  In  length,  the  kingdoms  are 
about  equal,  but  Scotland  is  less  broad,  being  exceeding 
narrow  in  some  parts.  In  this  respect,  a  Scotchman  is  a 
fair  epitome  of  his  country.  His  shibboleth,  however,  is 
sufficiently  comprehensive  for  mercantile  purposes. 

The  reason  why  Scotchmen  admire  their  own  language, 
is  because  they  are  Scotchmen.  "  I  do  not  know,"  says  a 
friend,  "  a  more  remarkable  instance  of  self-complacency 
than  that  of  a  Scotchman  priding  himself  upon  mispro 
nouncing  the  English  tongue/'  This  opinion  is  invidious 
and  incorrect,  as  will  be  seen  by  reasons  which  follow : 

It  must  strike  everyone  acquainted  with  this  sagacious 


162  ON    THE    HABITS    OF    SCOTCHMEN. 

people,  that  the  chief  national  characteristic  is — absence  of 
all  pretence.  Hence  arose  their  zeal  in  the  cause  of  the 
Pretender.  For  it  is  a  common  proof  that  men  are  apt  to 
admire  in  others  those  qualities  which  they  possess  not 
themselves.  How  else  account  for  those  Jacobin  spasm s, 
those  musical  manifestations  from  flatulent  bag-pipes, 
which  welcomed  "  Koyal  Charlie/'  the  Papist,  among  the 
blue-nosed  Presbyters  of  the  land  of  Knox  ?  Had  they 
not  been  sufficiently  roasted,  toasted,  grilled,  seared, 
branded,  and  devilled  by  the  Stuart,  sixty  years  before  ? 
Was  there  no  elder  remaining  whose  memory  could  reach 
as  far  as  the  days  and  deeds  of  Claverhouse  ?  None 
whose  taste  for  music  had  been  seriously  impaired  by  the 
demands  levied  upon  their  auricular  organs  by  that  fasci 
nating  cavalier  ?  It  is  impossible  to  solve  the  problem, 
except  by  the  above  reason. 

I  admire  this  warlike  nation.  None  love  so  much  to 
breathe  the  sulphurous  clouds  of  war  as  the  Scotchman. 
The  smell  of  brimstone  reminds  him  of  home.  He  comes 
from  his  glorious  mountains,  and  goes  into  the  fight  bare- 
breeched.  Simple  in  his  diet,  he  finds  content  in  a  man 
ger  ;  and  his  admiration  of  the  thistle  is  only  emulated  by 
that  patient  animal  so  touchingly  spoken  of  in  the  Senti 
mental  Journey.  "  Nemo  me  impune  lacessit :  touch  me 


ON    THE    HABITS    OF    SCOTCHMEN.  163 

not  with  impunity  :  if  thou  dost,  thou  shalt  scratch  for  it," 
is  his  motto.  Wrapped  in  his  plaid  and  his  pedigree  ; 
revelling  in  kilts  and  kail  brose  ;  alike  ready  with  his 
claymore  and  usquebaugh ;  with  much  in  his  skull  and 
more  in  his  mull ;  in  Highland  or  Lowland  ;  whether  on 
the  barren  heath  or  no  less  barren  mountain,  who  can  help 
loving  Sawney,  the  child  of  poetry  and  poverty  ?  Cole 
ridge  loved  him,  Charles  Lamb  loved  him,  Dr.  Johnson 
loved  him,  Junius  loved  him,  Sydney  Smith  loved  him,  and 
I  love  Sawney,  and  my  love  is  disinterested.  Bless  his 
diaphanous  soul !  who  can  help  it  ? 

Scotchmen  differ  from  their  Celtic  neighbors  in  some 
respects.  Pat  is  a  prodigal ;  his  idea  of  a  friend  is 
"something  to  be  assisted;"  a. joke  is  the  key  to-  his 
heart.  Sawney,  on  the  contrary,  is  ver.a  prudent ;  a 
friend  means  "something  from  which  to  expect  assist 
ance  ; "  and  a  joke  with  him  is  a  problem  beyond  the 
(Edipus.  An  Irishman's  idea  of  a  head  is  something  to 
hit  ;  a  Scotchman's  is  something  to  be  scratched.  I  do 
not  know  of  such  a  thing  extant  as  an  Irish,  or  Scotch 
Jew.  Thriftless  Paddy  with  thrifty  Mordecai  would  make 
a  compound  bitter  as  salt  ;  but  a  Scotch  Jew,  I  fancy, 
would  be  a  hard  hand  to  drive  a  bargain  with. 

Who  has  not  heard  of  Scottish  hospitality  ?     Did  you, 


164  ON    THE    HABITS    OF    SCOTCHMEN. 

reader,  ever  have  a  Highland  welcome  ?  If  not,  I  will  tell 
you  what  it  is.  It  is  a  tune  upon  the  national  violin  ;  the 
only  thing  a  stranger  gets  and  carries  away  from  the  land 
o'  cakes. 

There  is  a  great  difference  between  the  Highland  and 
the  Lowland  Scot.  This,  however,  is  not  so- evident  when 
they  migrate,  and  get  their  local  peculiarities  worn  away 
by  attrition  with  civilized  life.  Yet  there  is,  and  always 
has  been,  a  difference  between  them.  We,  who  live  amid 
a  population  more  checkered  than  the  most  elaborate  speci 
men  of  tartan  plaid,  care  very  little  whether  a  man's  name 
begin  with  a  "Mac"  or  not,  that  being  interesting  only  to 
the  directory  publisher,  and  not  bearing  at  all  upon  social 
or  fashionable  life.  But  the  question  assumes  a  different 
aspect  when  Mr.  Ferguson  recognizes  in  Mr.  McFingal  a 
descendant  of  some  former  McFingal,  who,  in  a  moment 
of  playful  levity,  came  down  from  Ben  this,  or  Ben  that, 
with  his  'kilted  Kernes  and  Gallowglasses,  in  the  manner 
so  beautifully  described  by  young  Norval,  and  at  one  fell 
swoop 'carried  off  all  his  (Mr.  Ferguson's)  ancestral  Fergu 
son's  owsen  and  kye,  his  Eryholmes  and  Ayrshires,  his 
lambies  and  hoggies,  yowes,  and  whatsoever  else  of  farrn- 
stock  and  implements  lay  handy  and  convenient,  without 
so  much  as  leaving  his  note  of  hand  for  the  same. 


ON    THE    HABITS    OF    SCOTCHMEN.  165 

Nor  does  Mr.  McFingal  feel  a  throb  of  joy  at  meeting 
a  descendant  of  that  Ferguson  who,  with  a  sma'  band  in 
hodden  gray,  burked  his  ancestral  McFingal,  when  in  all 
the  glory  of  clan-plaid  and  sporran,  the  old  gentleman  was 
looking  very  like  a  male  Bloomer  without  pantalettes,  and 
reminded  him  of  previous  little  familiarities  by  hanging 
him  to  the  nearest  tree  (if  he  found  one  large  enough), 
for  fear  he  might  never  get  another  chance.  These  trifling 
family  bickerings,  however,  rarely  disturb  the  outward 
manifestations  of  courtesy  :  Mr.  F.  meets  Mr.  McF.  with 
the  utmost  apparent  cordiality ;  although,  I  fear,  each 
have  a  secret  impulse  which  had  better  be  left  hidden  in 
the  Scotch  mists  of  dubiety. 

One  faculty  peculiar  to  Scotland  is  the  gift  of  second- 
sight.  A  remarkable  dilation  of  the  pupil  when  a  Scotch 
man  sees  a  shilling  makes  it  appear  in  his  eyes  as  large  as 
two  shillings.  This  is  second-sight.  To  it  may  be  ascribed 
his  wonderful  abstemiousness.  A  red  herring  in  his  ecstatic 
vision  becomes  glorified — it  rises  to  the  majesty  of  a  silver 
salmon  ;  a  spare-rib  expands  to  a  sirloin,  and  a  bannock  o' 
barley  meal  enlarges  to  the  dimensions  of  a  bride's-cake. 
"You  never  see,"  says  Mr.  Strahan  to  Dr..  Johnson,  "you 
never  see  people  dying  of  hunger  in  Scotland,  as  you  often 
do  in  England."  "  That,"  replied  the  Doctor,  "  is  owing  to 


166  ON    TIIK    HABITS    OF    SCOTCHMEN. 

the  impossibility  of  starving  a  Scotchman."  This  anecdote, 
which  I  give  upon  the  authority  of  James  Boswell,  Esq., 
Laird  of  Auchinleek,  will  be  readily  understood,  if  we  ac 
cept  the  above  postulate. 

That  second-sight  is  a  source  of  great  gratification  to 
Scotchmen  is  unquestionably  true,  but  there  is  one  ex 
ception.  Very  few  of  that  "volant  tribe  of  bards,"  I  take 
it,  covet  much  a  second  sight  of  their  own  country.  In 
support  of  this  opinion,  let  me  mention  a  circumstance 
which  occurred  some  years  ago  in  England.  A  Scotchman, 
for  some  offence,  was  sentenced,  in  one  of  the  criminal 
courts,  to  be  hanged  ;  but  his  countrymen,  in  a  petition  as 
long  as  his  pedigree,  besought  the  King  to  commute  the 
sentence,  to  which  His  Majesty  graciously  acceded,  order 
ing  him  to  be  transported  instead.  When  Sawney  heard 
of  this  little  diversion  in  his  favor,  in  place  of  expressing 
any  signs  of  joy,  he  turned,  with  misery  written  in  every 
lineament  of  his  face,  and  as^ed  where  the  King  intended 
to  send  him.  "  To  Botany  Bay,"  was  the  answer.  "  Gude 
bless  his  saul,"  said  Sawney,  brightening  up  at  once  ;  "  I 
was  afeard  I  was  to  be  sent  hame  again  ! " 

IJk>ok  forward  to  acquiring  a  taste  for  Scottish  poetry 
as  one  of  the  pleasing  accomplishments  of  my  old  age. 
What  I  mean,  is  that  written  in  the  melodious  dialect  of 


ON    THE    HABITS    OF    SCOTCHMEN.  167 

the  land  of  Hogg.  Scottish  prose,  I  regret  to  say,  has 
scarcely  an  existence,  owing  to  the  fact  that  every  scholar 
in  North  Britain  endeavors  to  learn  English  as  speedily 
as  possible,  in  order  to  fulfil  his  destiny ;  for  to  write 
a  History  of  England  seems  to  be  the  height  of 
Scotch  literary  ambition.  It  is  a  singular  fact,  but  for 
the  disinterested  labors  of  their  brethren  in  the  North, 
Englishmen  would  scarcely  know  any  thing  of  their  own 
country. 

Pride  of  birth  is  another  happy  attribute  of  Sawney. 
No  matter  how  unkindly  the  north  wind  may  whistle 
through  his  tattered  breeks  ;  no  matter  if  he  have  not  a 
bawbee  in  his  loof,  nor  parritch  in  his  pot,  he  looks  back 
through  the  haze  of  antiquity,  and  beholds  his  illustrious 
Forbears — like  a  string  of  onions  reversed,  with  the  biggest 
ones  on  top,  and  the  little  ones  following  at  a  respectful 
distance. 

There  is  something  so  naive  in  Tennant's  life  of  Allan 
Ramsay,  that  I  cannot  help  bringing  it  in  here,  by  way 
of  an  episode  : 

"His  step-father,  little  consulting  the  inclination  of 
young  Allan,  and  wishing  as  soon  as  possible,  and  at  any 
rate,  to  disencumber  himself  of  the  charge  of  his  support, 
bound  this  nursling  of  the  muse  apprentice  to  a  wig-maker. 


168  ON    THE    HABITS    OF    SCOTCHMEN*. 

Lowly  as  this  profession  is,  it  has  been  vindicated  by  one 
of  Kamsay's  biographers  into  comparative  dignity,  by  sep 
arating  it  from  the  kindred  business  of  barber,  with  which 
it  is  vulgarly  and  too  frequently  confounded.  Ramsay  was 
never,  it  seems,  a  barber  ;  his  enemies  never  blotted  him 
with  that  ignominy  ;  his  calling  of  i  skull- thacker/  as  he 
himself  ludicrously  terms  it,  was  too  dignified  to  be  let 
down  into  an  equality  with  the  men  of  the  razor.  Thus, 
from  the  beginning,  his  business  was  with  the  heads  of 
men  !  " 

If  this  be  not  getting  cleverly  out  of  a  bad  business,  I 
do  not  understand  Scotch.  Having  vindicated  the  young 
asknll-thatcher"  from  the  sharp  practice  of  men  of  the 
razor,  it  will  not  be  out  of  place  to  lift  him  a  notch  higher 
by  another  quotation  from  the  same  book  :  "  His  mother, 
Alice  Bower,  was  daughter  of  Allan  Bower,  a  gentleman 
of  Derbyshire,  whom  Lord  Hopetown  had  brought  to 
Scotland  to  superintend  his  miners.  In  his  lineage, 
therefore,  our  poet  had  something  to  boast  of,  and  though 
born  to  nae  lairdship"  (he  means  'not  worth  a  rap/)  "he 
fails  not  to  congratulate  himself  on  being  sprung  from  the 
fain-s  of  a  Douglas." 

In  the  Tropics  there  are  certain  porous  vessels,  through 
which  fluids,  no  matter  how  impure,  distil  in  bright  drops, 


ON    THE    HABITS    OF    SCOTCHMEN.  169 

without  showing  any  taint  of  the  offensive  contact.  In 
like  manner,  it  is  easy  to  imagine  the  blood  of  a  Douglas 
percolating  through  the  clay  of  a  wig-maker,  and  de 
scending  to  a  late  posterity  in  all  its  original  splendor. 
Methinks  I  see  it  centuries  hence,  running  its  devious 
course  through  paupers  and  scavengers  ;  through  poets  and 
pickpockets  ;  rusting  in  jails,  and  stagnating  in  alms- 
houses,  but  finally  blazing  out  in  pristine  lustre — flashing 
on  panels — glittering  on  harness — blazing  in  plaids  :  the 
same  old  feudal  blood  of  the  Ked  Douglas,  which  throbbed 
in  the  heart  of  Allan  Kamsay,  the  skull-thatcher,  and 
author  of  one  of  the  sweetest  lyrical  dramas  in  the 
language ! 

With  this  grand  flourish  of  bagpipes,  I  drop  the  cur 
tain.  In  the  words  of  my  old  friend,  "  May  ye  be  as  wise 
as  a  serpent,  and  as  cannie  as  a  dove." 


THE  LOCKET:  AN  ANCIENT  BALLAD. 


AND  thrice  her  lily-hand  he  wrung, 
And  kissed  her  lip  so  sweet  ; 
Then,  by  the  mane  and  stirrup,  swung 
Himself  into  his  seat. 

And  as  he  galloped  through  the  town, 
He  said,  "  Though  we  must  part, 

May  Heaven  prove  false  to  me,  if  I 
Prove  false  to  thee,  sweetheart/'' 


1*72  THE    LOCKET  :    AN    ANCIENT    BALLAD. 

Then  by  a  silken  string  lie  drew 

A  locket  quaint  and  old  ; 
The  ore  and  braid,  with  leaves  inlaid, 

Shone  like  a  marigold. 

He  sighed  amain  ;  then  touched  the  spring  ; 

Aside  he  brushed  a  tear  ; 
Smiled  out ;  quoth  he,  "  This  pledge  may  brinj 

A  cradle  or  a  bier." 

Beneath  a  leaden,  murderous  sky, 

The  roaring  cannons  glow  ; 
With  thunderous  wound  they  scar  the  ground, 

While  loud  the  trumpets  blow  : 

The  air  is  filled  with  bloody  foam, 

The  sward  is  torn  and  wet 
By  ball,  and  shot,  and  corpse,  and  clot, 

And  deadly  bayonet. 

But  where  yon  band  the  foeman  dares, 

The  noblest,  bravest,  best, 
Is  he  who  in  the  battle  bears 

A  locket  on  his  breast. 

He  cheers  them  on  !  A  bullet  speeds  ! 

"  What  means  that  sudden  start  ?  " 
The  mark  !  (the  locket  and  the  braid,) 

Is  driven  in  his  heart. 


THE    LOCKET  :    AN    ANCIENT    BALLAD. 

They  buried  him,  at  vesper  bell, 

The  red  kirk-wall  beside  ; 
The  mossed  kirk  tolled  another  knell, 

When  there  they  bore  his  bride  : 

,/.<*&;.  ;:•.?...       5 


173 


And  thrice  an  hundred  years  have  flown  ; 

Yet  what  care  they  or  we  ? 
"  So  here's  to  him,  the  gallant  knight, 

And  to  his  fair  ladve." 


ON    SOCIETIES 


AMELIORATING   THE  CONDITION   OF  THE  RICH. 

"  The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained : 
It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath :  it  is  twice  blessed ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes." — SHAKBPEARE. 

TT  hath  long  been  a  matter  of  surprise  to  me,  that  amidst 
a  multitude  of  benevolent  institutions  we  have  none 
for  ameliorating  the  condition  of  the  rich.  A  large  class  is 
certainly  left  out  of  the  sphere  of  popular  charity,  which, 
from  a  careful  examination  of  the  smallest  camels  in  vari 
ous  menageries,  and  a  personal  inspection  of  John  Hem 
ming  a,nd  Son's  best  drilled-eyed  cambrics,  seems  to  stand 
more  in  need  of  bur  sympathies  than  any  people  under  the 
sun.  We  may  also  observe,  when  one  of  these  highly-re 
spected  citizens  is  on  his  way  to  the  other  world,  he  is  gen 
erally  followed  by  an  unusual  concourse  of  clergymen  ;  and 


176  SOCIETIES   FOR    AMELIORATING    THE 

this,  like  a  consultation  of  physicians,  would  appear  to  in 
dicate  that  the  person  was  in  more  than  ordinary  peril,  and 
therefore  needed  greater  care  and  skill  than  one  within  the 
reach  of  customary  medicines. 

I  am  impelled  to  make  this  suggestion  more  particu 
larly  now,  from  the  fact  that  this  class  is  growing  upon  us  : 
the  evil  is  spreading,  and  to  a  greater  extent  than  many 
good  people  imagine.  I  have  been  surprised  lately  to  find 
persons  whom  I  did  not  imagine  worth  a  copper,  freely  ac 
knowledging  themselves  to  be  wealthy ;  and  others,  of 
whose  poverty  I  had  not  a  doubt,  confessing,  with  some 
little  tribulation  and  blushing,  there  was  no  truth  in  that 
report ;  that  money  was  with  them,  yea,  abundantly. 
Such  being  the  case,  a  common  sense  of  humanity  should 
induce  us  to  relieve  our  opulent  brethren  from  a  portion  of 
their  distress,  in  order  to  prevent  extension  of  the  mischief. 
"  Homo  sum  ;  nihil  liumani  d  me  alienum  puto."  We,  who 
belong  to  the  ancient  and  honorable  order  of  poverty,  must 
not  be  neglectful  of  such  claims  upon  us.  Yet  we  should 
do  it  tenderly  and  affectionately ;  not  haughtily,  and  with 
an  air  of  superiority,  but  with  a  grace. 

"  Poverty,"  saith  Austin,  "  is  the  way  to  heaven,  the 
mistress  of  philosophy,  the  mother  of  religion,  virtue,  so 
briety,  sister  of  innocency  and  an  upright  mind." ,  True — 


CONDITION    OF    THE    RICH.  177 

I  dispute  not  .the  words  of  the  Father :  but  need  we  there 
fore  exult  and  vaingloriously  contemn  those  who  have 
the  misfortune  to  be  rich  ?  Should  we  not  rather  take 
them  by  the  hand,  and  show  them  the  way  to  be  better, 
wiser,  happier  ?  Should  we  not  teach  them  that  riches 
are  only  relative  blessings ;  poverty  a  positive  one  ?  Should 
we  let  them  struggle  on  for  years  and  years  in  a  wrong 
path,  without  endeavoring  to  .pluck  them  "  as  brands  from 
the  burning  ?  " 

Kiches  are  only  relative  :  Apax  is  rich,  but  Syphax  is 
richer :  by-and-by,  some  rude,  illiterate  fellow,  who  went 
to  California  with  a  spade  on  his  shoulder,  returns  with 
money  enough  to  eclipse  both.  Our  little  domestic  flashes 
of  wealth  pale  their  ineffectual  fires  before  the  dazzling  op 
ulence  of  the  India  House  ;  nay,  show  like  poverty  itself, 
compared  with  that  treasury  of  empires,  which  seems  to 
realize 

"  the  royal  state  which  far 

Outshone  the  wealth  of  Ormus  or  of  Ind." 

And  yet  Tempus  edax  rerum  :  its  ingots  and  tissues,  its 
barbaric  pearl  and  gold,  will  be  scattered ;  'oblivion  will  set 
its  seal  upon  it  ;  obscurity,  with  dust  and  ashes —  Stay — 
The  India  House  has  a  name  connected  with  it — an 
humble  and  unpretending  name — whose  influence  will 


178  SOCIETIES    FOR    AMELIORATING   THE 

draw  pilgrims  thither  while  one  crumbling  stone  rests 
upon  another  ;  and  when  the  very  ground  where  it  now 
stands  shall  be  forgotten,  when  its  illustrious  line  of  name 
less  nabobs  lie  neglected  with  the  common  multitude, 
upon  that  ancient  edifice  will  rest,  like  a  sunset  glory, 
the  fame  of  Charles  Lamb. 

I  know  many  are  jealous  of  position,  and  derive  no  lit 
tle  self-respect  from  what  they  call  their  "  circumstances." 
But  how  mutable  is  pecuniary  fame  !  Must  not  the  mere 
wealthy  occupy  a  position  comparatively  degraded  in  the 
presence  of  the  wealthier  ?  And  how  do  our  wealthiest 
show  beside  those  nabobs  of  the  India  House — those  east 
ern  magnificats  ?  Very  like  paupers,  I  fancy.  Should  it 
not  then  awaken  the  sympathies  of  the  benevolent — the 
unfortunate  situation  of  those  "  creatures  of  circum 
stance  ?  " 

There  are  those,  rich  as  well  as  poor,  superior  to  this, 
and  with  such,  this  humane  proposition  has  nothing  to  do. 
Refinement  and  courtesy  adorn  opulence  ;  benevolence 
moves  in  a  wider  sphere,  rare  accomplishments  and  ex 
quisite  taste  are  more  attainable,  when  liberal  means  unite 
with  liberal  uses.  But  ignorance  and  vulgarity,  mean 
ness  and  pretence,  are  hideous  in  gilded  trappings.  For 
the  benefit  of  this  class  I  make  the  suggestion. 


CONDITION  -OF    THE    RICH.  179 

It  is  not  in  my  nature  to  cast  reflections.  I  could 

scarcely  forgive  the  spiteful  allusion  of  H the  other 

day  to  a  certain  Gothic  building,  which  he  called  "the 
ecclesiastical  rattle  for  grown-up  children  ; "  an  epithet- 
unworthy  of  a  poor  man  glorying  in  the  power  of  his  lite 
rary  affluence.  No,  far  be  it  from  me  to  countenance 
uncharitable  reflections  :  let  us  remember  we  are  all  hu 
man,  it  is  man's  nature  to  err,  many  cannot  help  being 
rich  ;  and  souls'  vibrating  between  the  opera-house  and 
such  places  as  the  one  above  alluded  to,  drifting  as  it  were 
upon  tides  of  harmony  any  whither,  are  objects — not  of 
our  derision — but  of  our  pity. 

My  intention  had  been  to  refer  to  the  miseries  of  the 
rich  in  this  paper,  but  a  .mere  allusion  to  so  fruitful  a  sub 
ject  will  doubtless  suggest  enough  to  awaken  the  sympa 
thies  of  the  benevolent.  Avarice — mere  avarice,  in  it  self- 
is  bad  enough  ;  a  powerful  astringent,  it  produces  consti 
pation  of  the  mind,  from  whence  comes  ignorance,  the 
mother  of  mischief.  But  Avarus  dies  and  endows  bene 
volent  institutions,  and  thereby  the  world  is  bettered.  It 
is  the  tinsel  show  of  real  or  affected  wealth  ;  its  currents 
of  folly,  its  ebbs  and  flows,  tides,  eddies  and  whirlpools  ; 
its  generations,  rising  up  in  young  misses  who  have  not 
left  off  the  rocking  motion  acquired  in  the  cradle ;  its 


180  SOCIETIES    FOR   AMELIORATING 

squab-dandies,  stilting  along  on  legs  you  might  thrust  in 
your  double-barrel  gun  ;  its  elders,  with  a  reversion  in 
Greenwood  for  the  benefit  of  their  heirs  ;  it  is  this  show, 
this  pageant,  which  appears  to  the  philanthropist  pitiable 
beyond  the  mimic  efforts  of  the  stage,  the  fictions  of  ima 
gination,  or  the  supplications  of  the  professional  pauper 
who  begs,  with  God  knows  how  much,  content  in  his  heart. 

I  fear  I  also  may  be  amenable  to  the  charge  of 

• 
"  boasting  poverty,  with  too  much  pride," 

as  Prior  hath  it,  and  therefore  will  turn  to  the  main  part 
and  body,  or  rather  head,  of  my  subject. 

I  propose  to  the  benevolent,  to  establish  societies  for 
ameliorating  the  condition  of  the  rich.  I  would  suggest 
that  a  board  of  directors  be  appointed,  with  visiting  com 
mittees,  to  inquire  into  the  condition  of  the  more  opulent 
families,  to  call  upon  them  personally,  and  give  such  advice 
and  assistance  as  their  several  cases  seem  to  require. 

To  the  board  of  visitors,  I  would  refer  the  motto  above 
quoted  : 

"  The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained  : 
.It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath :  it  is  TWICE  blessed ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives  and  him  that  takes." 

Therefore  take  what  you  can,  and  be  merciful. 


CONDITION    OF    THE    RICH.  181 

I  would  recommend  an  asylum  to  be  provided  for  those 
whose  opulence  is  excessive,  and  at  the  same  time  whose 
mental  incapacity  prevents  them  taking  proper  care  of 
themselves. 

I  would  suggest  the  purchase  of  substantial  woollen 
garments  for  those  who  need  them  ;  gymnasiums  for 
youth  ;  and  that  a  proper  care  be  had  for  the  moral 
culture  of  both  sexes. 

But,  above  all,  I  suggest  the  immediate  organization 
of  the  society.  The  miseries  of  the  rich  afford  so  copious 
a  field  for  the  exercise  of  true  benevolence,  that  I  leave 
the  matter  to  those  more  experienced  and  better  able  to 
advise  than  the  writer. 


WHERE   IS    THE   HOLY  TEMPLE? 

WHERE  is  the  holy  temple — where  the  fane 
Which  sin-sick  souls  may  seek,  for  heavenly  grace, 
And  casting  off  all  earthly  care  and  pain, 
Find  resting-place  ? 

Where,  as  upon  the  sacred  mount,  the  dew 

Grently  descends  the  parched  grass  reviving  ; 

The  blessing  falls — the  sinner  feels  anew 
His  faith  surviving  ! 

Where  is  the  faithful  watchman  ?     Where  the  tower 
From  whence  the  cry  is  heard,  "  Repent  and  live  ?  " 

Where  is  the  manna,  that  in  latest  hour 
Relief  can  give  ? 


184  WHERE    IS    THE    HOLY    TEMPLE  ? 

Not  in  these  marble  piles  of  sculptured  glory, 
Where  the  lulled  sense  alone  is  gratified  ; 

Of  earthly  pomp  the  vain  repository, 
And  human  pride. 

Not  where  the  organ  peals,  the  voices  soar, 

In  sounds  voluptuous  from  harmonic  choirs  ; 

Not  where  the  saint-emblazoned  windows  pour 
Irradiate  fires. 

Here  shall  the  lowly  hope ;  the  haughty  quail ; 

The  guilty  melt  with  soul-subduing  fears  ? 
The  secret,  drooping  heart  at  length  unveil 

Its  urn  of  tears  ? 

Alas  !  not  here  abides  the  dispensation  ; 

Seek  then  thy  closet ;  weeping,  kiss  the  rod  ; 
Pour  out  thy  grief  with  earnest  supplication 

And  trust  in  God  ! 


ALLITERATION. 

u  T1THY  the  art  of  poetry  should  be  so  much  neglected, 
'  and  the  inferior  art  of  music  so  extensively  cultiva 
ted  in  this  age  of  intelligence  ?  "  is  a  question  more  easily 
asked  than  answered.  There  are  many  young  ladies,  and 
young  gentlemen,  able  to  discourse,  almost  pedantically,  of 
chromatics  and  dynamics;  of  staccatos  and  appoggiaturas  ; 
who  would  not  be  ashamed  to  confess  they  had  not  the  re 
motest  idea  of  an  iambus,  or  a  dactyl.  I  speak  now  of 
the  elementary  principles  of  those  arts  ;  of  acquaintance 
with  the  mechanism,  by  which  certain  effects  are  produced 
in  either.  I  do  not  think  a  mere  knowledge  of  the  cate 
chism  of  verses  sufficient  to  create  a  Byron  or  a  Shak- 
speare.  I  am  sure  cultivation  in  music  has  produced  very 
few  Mozarts  or  Rossinis,  this  side  the  Atlantic.  But 


186  ALLITERATION. 

if  we  aspire  neither  to  be  great  poets,  nor  great  composers, 
why  devote  so  much  attention  to  acquire  the  art  of  the  lat 
ter,  and  neglect  entirely  the  art  of  the  first  ? 

Why  not  understand  the  iambic  measure  as  well  as 
common  time  ? 

Why  not  a  trochee  as  well  as  a  crotchet  ? 

Why  not  language  in  its  divinest  form  as  well  as 
sound  ? 

Why  not  cultivate  conversation  as  well  as  music  ? 

The  essays  of  Edgar  A.  Poe,  and  "Imagination  and 
Fancy,"  by  Leigh  Hunt,  are  not  only  valuable,  but  agree 
able  text-books,  relating  to  an  art,  a  knowledge  of  which 
should  be  one  of  the  indispensable  requisites  of  polite  edu 
cation.  As  for  the  cast-aside  prosodies  of  the  school-room, 
they  had  better  be  left  where  they  are.  They  hold  freedom 
of  expression  in  bondage  and  load  invention  with  shackles. 
They  are  retrospective,  not  introspective.  They  teach  us 
what  has  been  done,  not  what  may  be  done. 

Imagination  and  fancy,  pathos  and  humor,  are  born,  not 
made.*  But  these  rare  gifts  take  various  forms  of  expres 
sion.  The  poet  sees  a  moonlight  and  describes  it.  The 
painter  paints  it.  Harmony  is  translated  differently  by 

*  I  believe  wit  must  be  cultivated.     It  is  not  a  natural  faculty,  like 
the  others.     A  child  is  never  witty  but  by  accident. 


ALLITERATION.  187 

sculpture  and  music.  But  the  same  feeling  for,  or  sense  of 
beauty,  pervades  either  and  all. 

Imagination  takes  a  poetic  form  through  versification. 
Ben  Jonson,  in  his  "  Discoveries,"  observes  this.  "  A  po 
em,  as  I  have  told  you,  is  the  work  of  the  poet ;  the  end 
and  fruit  of  his  labor  and  study.  Poesy  is  his  skill  or 
craft  of  making  ;  the  very  fiction  itself,  the  reason  or  form 
of  the  work.  And  these  three  voices  differ  as  the  thing 
done,  the  doing,  and  the  doer ;  the  thing  feigned,  the 
feigning  and  the  feigner ;  so  the  poem,  the  poesy  (or  ver 
sification),  and  the  poet." 

Versification  is  made  up  of  many  elements.  In  this 
art  as  in  others,  certain  latent  principles  exist,  even  in  the 
rudest  productions.  These  have  been  more  or  less  develop 
ed  by  various  poets  in  various  ages.  To  one  of  these  ele 
ments,  which  is  in  truth  only  a  minor  embellishment,  I  pur 
pose  to  devote  this  essay. 

That  alliteration,  as  an  element  of  the.  art,  has  been 
carefully  studied  by  almost  all  English  poets,  must  be  ob 
vious  to  every  reader  of  English  poetry.  The  illustrations 
I  shall  present,  by  way  of  simplifying  the  matter  will  be 
confined  to  a  single  letter  of  the  alphabet.  The  liquid  con 
sonant  "  L  "  will  suit  the  purpose  best,  because  it  is  a  favor 
ite,  and  justly  so,  on  account  of  its  euphony. 


188  ALLITERATION. 

"  The  letter  L"  says  Ben  Jonson,  "  hath  a  half-vowel- 
ish  sound/7  and  "  melteth  in  the  sounding."  Many  of  the 
softest  words  in  our  language  hold  it  (so  to  speak)  in  solu 
tion.  Amiable,  voluble,  golden,  silvery,  gentle,  peaceful, 
tranquil,  glide,  glode,  dimple,  temple,  simple,  dulcet, 
blithely,  vernal,  tendril,  melody,  lute,  twinkle,  lonely, 
stilly,  valley,  slowly,  lithe,  playful,  linger,  illusion,  lovely, 
nightingale,  philomel,  graceful,  slumber,  warble,  pool,  pen 
sile,  silken,  gleam,  lull,  are  all  more  or  less  expressive  of 
softness,  sweetness,  and  repose.  To  this  may  be  objected, 
that  the  word  "  hell ! "  with  its  double  consonants,  is  sug 
gestive  of  neither.  This  is  not  because  the  word  itself  is 
at  fault ;  the  meaning  becomes  confounded  with  the  sound. 
A  friend  suggests  "  that  if  hell  were  the  name  of  a  flower, 
it  would  be  thought  beautiful."  "Helen"  is  a  pretty 
female  name,  and  it  is  united  with  the  story  of  her  who 
won  the  golden  apple  on  Mount  Ida — the  loveliest  woman 
of  the  world. 

Are  not  drowsily,  dreamily,  lullaby,  super-euphonisms  ? 

"How  sweet  the  moonfigkt  sleeps  upon  this  bank!  " 

What  can  replace  those  two  delicious  words  of  that  match 
less  line  of  Shakspeare  ? — 

" moonlight  sZeeps !  " 


ALLITERATION.  18'.) 

"  That  kiss  went  tingling  to  my  very  heart. 
When  it  was  gone,  the  sense  of  it  did  stay  ; 
The  sweetness  cZing'd  upon  my  lips  all  day." 

"  Cling'd  upon  my  lips  !  " — exquisite  Dryden  ! 

Do  we  not  apprehend,  in  these  lines  of  Tennyson,  a 
sense  of  beauty  quite  as  dependent  upon  the  melody  as 
upon  the  image  ? — 

"  Many  a  night  I  saw  the  PZeiads,  rising  thro'  the  meZZow  shade, 
GZitter  Zike  a  swarm  of  fire-fZies  tangZed  in  a  siZver  braid." 

Our  own  great  poet,  Drake,  alliterates  in  the  musicallest 
verses  ; — 

"And  in  AZugaVvaZe  beZow 
The  giZded  grain  is  moving  sZow, 
Zike  yeZZow  moonlight  on  the  sea, 
When  waves  are  sweZZmg  peacefuZZy." 

Coleridge's  famous  stanza  begins — 

"  A  damseZ  with  a  duZcimer." 

Poe?  too,  in  The  Sleeper — 

"  At  midnight,  in  the  month  of  June, 
I  stand  beneath  the  mystic  moon  ;     • 
An  opiate  vapor,  dewy,  dim, 
ExhaZes  from  out  her  goZden  rim, 


"J  90  ALLITERATION. 

"  And  softZy  dripping,  drop  by  drop, 
Upon  the  quiet  mountain's  top, 
Steals  drowsiZy  and  musicaZZy 
Into  the  universaZ  vaZZey." 

Coleridge  again — 

"  Her  gentZe  Zimbs  she  did  undress 
And  lay  down  in  her  ZoveZiness." 

Of  which  Leigh  Hunt  remarks,  "  the  very  smoothness  and 
gentleness  of  the  limbs,  is  in  the  series  of  the  letter  I's." 

"  A  Zady  so  richly  cZad  as  she, 
BeautifuZ  exceedingZy." 

Let  us  take  a  few  examples  from  Milton  : — 
•'  Zap  me  in  soft  Zydian  airs." 

"  In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout 
Of  Zinked  sweetness  Zon     ^awn  out." 

In  Gray's  Elegy  we  find — 

"  Now  fades  the  gZimmering  Zandscape  on  the  sight, 

And  aZZ  the  air  a  soZemn  stiZZuess  hoZds, 
Save  where  the  beetZe  wheeZs  his  droning  fZight, 
And  drowsy  tinkZings  ZuZZ  the  distant  foZds." 

A  marvellous  collocation  of  I's. 


ALLITERATION.  191 

It  lingers  throughout  the  pages  of  Shelley — 

"  Zike  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  paZace  tower, 
Soothing  her  Zove-Zaden 

SouZ  in  secret  hour, 
With  music  sweet  as  Jove,  that  overflows  her  bower." 

"  Zike  a  gZow-worm  goZden 

In  a  deZZ  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbehoZden 

Its  aeriaZ  hue 
Among  the  fZowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the  view." 

There  are  many  instances  in  Spenser  ;  I  will  quote 
one  as  an  ensample  : 

"  The  gentZe  warbZing  wind  low  answered  to  aZZ." 
And  Marlowe — 


'  Mine  argosie.     om  Alexandria, 
Zoaden  with  spice  and  siZks,  now  under  sai£, 
Are  smoothZy  gliding." 


Kaleigh — 


1  By  shaZZow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigafe." 


We  observe  Shakspeare  quotes  this. 


192  ALLITERATION. 

How  glibly  the  pen  of  that  old  gourmand,  Ben  Jonsori, 
wrote — 

" 1  inyseZf  will  have 

The  beards  of  barbeZs  served  instead  of  saZads, 
OiZed  mushrooms,  and  the  sweZZing,  unctious  paps 
Of  a  fat  pregnant  sow,  newZy  cut  off." 

Milton  again — 

"  To  sport  with  AmaryZZis  in  the  shade. 
Or  with  the  tangZes  of  Neaera's  hair." 

Need  I  point  out  the  charming  echo  in  these  lines  ? 
Sometimes  there  is  a  musical  ring  in  repetition — 

" dance  their  whistZing  ringZets  in  the  wind." 

SHAKSPEARE. 

"  And  whan  he  rode,  men  mighte  his  bridaZ  here, 
GingeZing  in  a  whistZing  wind  as  cZere, 
And  eke  as  Zoude,  as  doth  the  chapeZZ  beZZ." — CHAUCER. 

"  Hear  the  sZedges  Avith  their  beZZs — 

SiZverbeZZs! 

What  a  worZd  of  merriment  their  meZody  foreteZZs ! 
How  they  tinkZe,  tinkZe,  tinkZe, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
WhiZe  the  stars  that  oversprinkZe 
AZZ  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkZe 
With  a  crystaZZine  deZight ; 


ALLITERATION.  193 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musica%  weZfe 

From  the  beWs,  beZfe,  beZZs,  beWs, 

BeWs,  beZfe,  beZfe— 
From  the  jingftng  and  the  tinkling  of  the  beZfe." — POE. 

"  My  beautiful  Annabel  Zee." — IBID. 

I  might,  in  addition  to  these,  make  other  selections, 
from  various  writers,  but  it  is  scarcely  necessary.  Doubt 
less  many  will  suggest  themselves  to  the  reader.  It  is 
easy  to  quote  texts  in  support  of  any  theory,  however  fan 
ciful  ;  but  these  selections,  embracing  some  of  the  most 
celebrated  lines  in  the  language,  remarkable  for  sweetness 
and  fluency,  have  one  property  in  common — they  are  all 
alliterations  of  the  letter  I. 

"  And  would  you  infer  from  that,"  quoth  the  reader, 
"it  is  necessary  to  have  such  alliterations  in  every  poem, 
to  make  it  pass  muster  ?  " 

By  no  means  ;  I  wish  only  to  direct  your  attention  to 
one  element,  which,  as  I  have  said  before,  is  but  a  minor 
embellishment  in  versification.  I  have  taken  up  a  single  let 
ter — you  have  the  whole  alphabet  before  you,  with  imagi 
nation,  fancy,  humor,  pathos,  and  sentiment  to  boot.  If 
we  do  not  know  the  value  of  a  trochee,  an  anapaest,  or  an 


194  ALLITERATION. 

iambus,  then,  as  far  as  we  are  concerned,  have  Shakspearc, 
Milton,  and  Spenser  written  poetry  in  vain.  They  might 
as  well  have  limited  themselves  to  prose. 

"  And  do  you  think  those  great  poets  made  these  allit 
erations  knowingly  and  systematically  ?  " 

Amigo  mio,  either  they  knew  what  they  were  doing,  or 
they  did  not.  If  they  merely  blundered  into  beauty,  then 
their  merits  have  been  somewhat  overrated.  I  am  inclined 
to  believe  those  master  weavers  of  verse  understood  the  fab 
ric,  woof  and  warp,  quite  as  well  as  any  threadbare  critic 
or  grammarian — perhaps  better. 

The  poetic  student  will  find  many  valuable  hints  in 
Ben  Jonson's  "Discoveries,"  from  which  I  have  quoted 
briefly.  I  will  conclude  this  essay  (the  amusement  of  a 
long  winter  evening)  by  another  excerpt  from  the  same 
source.  He  says,  speaking  of  poetry — 

"  The  study  of  it  (if  we  will  trust  Aristotle)  offers  to 
mankind  a  certain  rule  and  pattern  of  living  well  and  hap 
pily,  disposing  us  to  all  civil  offices  of  society.  If  we  will 
believe  Tully,  it  nourisheth  and  instruct eth  our  youth,  de 
lights  our  age,  adorns  our  prosperity,  comforts  our  adver 
sity,  entertains  us  at  home,  keeps  us  company  abroad, 
travels  with  us,  watches,  divides  the  time  of  our  earnest 
and  sports,  shares  in  our  country  recesses  and  recreations. 


ALLITERATION.  195 

insomuch  as  the  wisest  and  best  learned  have  thought  her 
the  absolute  mistress  of  manners,  and  nearest  of  kin  to 
virtue.  And  whereas  they  entitle  philosophy  to  be  a  rigid 
and  austere  poesy  ;  they  have,  on  the  contrary,  styled 
poetry  a  dulcet  and  gentle  philosophy,  which  leads  on  and 
guides  us  by  the  hand  to  action,  with  a  ravishing  delight, 
and  incredible  sweetness/' 
0  rare  Ben  Jonson  ! 


ALB  UM    VERSES. 

LOYE  .WITHOUT  HOPE. 

LOVE  without  hope  !     poor  cheerless  flower 
Come,  in  this  hapless  bosom  rest  : 
Whisper,  at  midnight's  weary  hour, 
"  Though  unrequited,  not  unblest." 

Teach  me  to  love,  and  yet  forego  ; 

Teach  me  to  wish,  and  yet  forbear  ; 
To  hopeless  live,  and  hopeless  know 

The  dead,  dumb,  sweetness  of  despair. 

Thus,  in  the  calm  lake's  peaceful  breast 
The  golden  clouds  reflected  rest ; 

But  the  mad  waves  more  rashly  woo, 
And  lose  the  image  they  pursue. 


198  ALBUM    VERSES. 


TO  SARAH. 

,  in  the  ancient  Hebrew, 
Meaneth  "  mistress,  dame,  or  wife," 
So  it  seems  your  fate  is  settled, 
For  the  matrimonial  life. 

Home,  they  say,  is  next  to  heaven, 
That's  a  thing  well  understood  ; 

And,  I  think,  Miss  Sally 

You  can  make  the  adage  good. 

But,  while  life  is  in  its  spring-time, 
Keep  that  little  heart  of  thine 

Like  some  precious  relic,  hidden 
In  a  pilgrim-worshipped  shrine. 

Though,  from  lips  of  fondest  lover, 
Words  of  soft  persuasion  breathe, 

Let  ten  years  at  least  roll  over 
Ere  you  wear  the  orange-wreath. 

Ten  good  years,  and  then  I'll  wager 
Twenty  thousand  pounds  upon  it, 

Sweeter  maid  than  Sarah,  never 
Blushed  beneath  a  bridal  bonnet. 


ALBUM    VERSES.  199 


TO  MARY. 

DEAR  MARY,  though  these  lines  may  fade, 
And  drop  neglected  in  the  dust, 

Yet  what  I  wish,  my  little  maid, 
Will  surely  come  to  pass,  I  trust. 

May  all  that's  purest,  rarest,  best, 

Be  imaged  ever  in  thy  heart ; 
And  may  thy  future  years  attest 

Thee  innocent,  as  now  thou  art. 

Fair  seem  the  flowers,  fair  seems  the  spring, 
Bright  shines  the  sun — the  starry  band, 

Life  flies,  with  inexperienced  wing, 
O'er  blooming  fields  of  Morning-land. 

But  where  yon  rosy  summit  glows 
Forbear  to  tempt  the  aspiring  flight, 

For  storms  those  painted  clouds  enclose, 
And  tempests  beat  yon  glittering  height, 

Ah,  no — the  illusive  wish  forego — 
This  precept  learn,  by  nature  given, 

From  mountain's  tops,  we  gaze  below, 
But  in  the  vales,  we  look  to  heaven. 


200  ALBUM    VERSES. 

Then  be  thy  guide  the  golden  truth  ; 

Keep  thou  thy  heart  serene  and  young  ; 
And  in  thy  age,  as  in  thy  youth, 

Thou'lt  still  be  loved  and  still  be  sung. 


THE    LAY-FIGUKE. 

TN  the  ancient  city  of  Cordova,  in  one  of  its  narrowest 
•*•  streets  (the  Calle  de  San  Pedro),  there  formerly  lived 
an  aged  artist,  by  name  Don  Diego  Gonzales.  The  two 
things  he  most  prized  in  the  world  were  his  daughter  and 
a  lay-figure,  the  latter  being  at  that  time  the  only  one  in 
the  city.  And  sooth  to  say,  his  passion  for  his  lay-figure 
was  such  that  it  was  produced  in  all  his  pictures,  which 
made  them  to  be  sought  after  as  those  of  an  original  and 
unique  school,  different  from  any  thing  in  nature  ;  in  fact, 
so  much  enamored  was  he  of  this  thing  of  wood,  canvas, 
and  sawdust,  that  he  scarcely  thought  of  his  daughter, 
whose  eyes  were  like  brown  garnets,  her  waist  like  the 
stalk  of  a  lily,  and  her  lips  like  the  cleft  in  a  rose  with  the 
early  dew  on  it.  Truly  the  fable  of  Pygmalion  was  re- 


202  THE   LAY-FIGURE. 

vived  in  Calle  de  San  Pedro,  in  the  ancient  city  of  Cor 
dova. 

Not  far  from  his  studio  there  lived  a  young  painter, 
who  had  often  seen  the  beautiful  Isadora  (for  such  was  the 
name  of  Don  Diego's  daughter),  as  she  went  to  mass  and 
confession,  and  oftentimes  he  had  sought  in  vain  to  pierce 
through  the  gloom  of  her  lattice  with  his  eyes,  or  meet  her, 
in  his  visits  to  the  old  man.  But  all  his  efforts  ended  in 
disappointment,  until,  by  dint  of  laying  siege  in  regular 
form,  that  is  by  sonnets  and  sighs,  accompanied  by  catgut 
and  wire,  he  succeeded  in  ensnaring  the  bird  ;  I  mean,  he 
gained  her  heart  completely.  The  old  man  took  no  notice 
of  these  tender  affairs,  so  much  occupied  was  he  with  his 
lay-figure.  But  for  all  that,  Don  Juan  de  Siempreviva 
knew  very  well  there  was  no  hope  of  obtaining  Don  Diego's 
consent ;  the  old  man's  experience  with  artists  being  such 
that  I  verily  believe  he  would  almost  have  burnt  his  be 
loved  lay-figure  before  he  would  have  given  his  daughter 
to  the  best  of  that  profession  in  Cordova.  Knowing,  how 
ever,  that  kindness  of  heart  was  a  prominent  trait  in  Don 
Diego's  character,  Don  Juan  laid  a  plan  to  gain  his  ends. 

It  was,  to  get  the  loan  of  the  lay-figure  ;  and  by  dint 
of  perseverance,  not  unmixed  with  flattery,  he  succeeded. 
Now,  as  it  was  the  custom  of  Don  Diego,  after  breakfast  and 


THE    LAY-FIGURE.  203 

prayers  to  sit  in  his  studio  absorbed  in  his  work  until  sies 
ta,  and  as  most  of  the  time  the  head  of  the  lay-figure  was 
covered  by  a  cloth  to  keep  it  from  the  flies,  it  was  agreed 
that  Isadora  should  adopt  the  dress  of  the  figure,  cover 
her  head  with  the  cloth,  take  its  place  some  morning, 
and  thus  be  carried  off  by  four  stout  porters  to  the  lodgings 
of  Don  Juan,  where  the  priest  and  all  things  being  ready, 
the  knot  could  be  tied,  and  a  trip  to  Madrid,  followed  by 
penitence  and  forgiveness,  would  make  a  very  pretty  little 
romantic  affair,  without  doing  harm  to  any  body. 

The  expected  morning  came  at  last,  and  you  may  be 
sure  Don  Juan  waited  with  some  impatience  for  his  prize. 
At  last  the  porters  entered,  bearing  it  upon  a  narrow  plat 
form,  and  as  soon  as  their  backs  were  turned,  he  drew  with 
impatience  the  cloth  from  the  face,  and  beheld  not  the 
beautiful  Isadora,  but  the  waxen  features  of  the  lay-figure ! 
Isadora  not  being  able  to  effect  the  change  in  time,  the 
lay-figure  was  borne  away,  and  I  assure  you  the  old  man 
could  not  have  vented  more  lamentable  groans  had  it  been 
in  reality  the  body  of  his  own  daughter. 

Now  surprising  as  it  may  seem,  soon  after,  Don  Juan 
became  as  much  enamored  of  the  lay-figure  as  Don  Diego 
had  been.  It  was  the  subject  of  all  his  studies,  and  the 
ideal  that  found  a  place  in  all  his  productions,  so  that  the 


204  THE    LAY-FIGURE. 

connoisseurs  of  Cordova  were  puzzled  with  every  new  pic 
ture,  some  pronouncing  it  to  be  a  genuine  Gonzales,  while 
others  as  stoutly  maintained  it  to  be  a  Siempreviva.  In 
the  meanwhile  the  beautiful  Isadora,  utterly  neglected, 
pined  alone  within  her  chamber,  without  so  much  as  a 
word  or  look  from  the  faithless  Don  Juan.  And  the  end 
of  it  was,  there  arose  a  deadly  hatred  between  the  old  and 
the  young  artist  concerning  the  lay-figure  ;  and  there  was  a 
hostile  meeting  in  the  Paseo,  outside  the  walls,  in  which 
Don  Diego  was  killed  ;  and  soon  after  Don  Juan  being  ap 
prehended  and  executed,  the  beautiful  Isadora  died  of  grief. 
Her  tomb  is  in  the  burial-place  behind  the  great  cathedral, 
with  this  inscription  ; 

'  Joven,  Bella,  de  todas  adorada, 
Dejo  la  tierra  por  mejor  morada.' 

But  the  lay-figure  still  remains  ;    and  to  this  day  you 
can  find  copies  of  it  in  many  pictures  in  and  out  of  Cordova. 


TO 

"  T) RING-/'  saith  the  Hindoo  wife,  "the  flame/' 
-L)     "  And  pile  the  crackling  faggots  high  ; 
In  joy  and  woe,  in  pride  and  shame, 

With  thee  I  lived — with  thee  I'll  die — 
In  streams  of  fire  my  soul  shall  be 

Upborne  to  thee  ! " 

So,  round  my  heart,  consuming  love 
The  dark,  funereal  pyre  uprears  ; 

Onward  the  rolling  moments  move, 

And  Death — the  Merciful !  appears, — 

But  oh — the  bitter  pang  !  to  be 
Removed  from  thee. 

Oh,  could  my  heart  again  be  still, 

Though  'twere  the  grave  that  held  my  mould, 


206  TO  

I'd  seek  the  shadowed  mystery, — 

The  silent  chamber,  dark  and  cold  ; — 

Yet  life — dear  life  !  would  priceless  be 
If  shared  with  thee. 

But  now,  the  flames  to  ashes  turn  ; 

The  wine  to  blood — oh  ghastly  sight  ! 
The  pall  half  drapes  the  sculptured  urn 

Where  faintly  burns  yon  spectral  light, 
And  shadowy  phantoms  beckon  me 

Away — from  thee. 

Come  to  the  house  !     'tis  deadly  still — 
Sombre,  and  low,  and  chill,  and  wet, 

With  earth-worms  writhing  o'er  the  sill, 
Earthy,  and  mouldy,  smelleth  it ; 

;Tis  mine — my  mansion  reared  for  me 
By  thee  ! — By  thee  ! 


MY    BOY    IN    THE    C  O  TJ  N  T  K  Y . 

METHINKS  I  see  his  head's  round,  silky  crop, 
Like  a  blown  thistle's  top  ! 
Or  watch  him  walk — with  legs  stretched  wide  apart, 

Dragging  a  small  red  cart ; 
Or  hear  his  tiny  treble,  chirp  in  play, 

With,  "0  go  way  !" 
Or,  where  the  crystal  eddies  swirl  the  sand, 

I  see  him  stand 
To  plump  the  polished  pebbles  in  the  brook 

With  steadfast  look, 
While  his  wee,  waggling  head,  with  nothing  on  it 

But  a  sun-bonnet, 
Looks  like  the  picture  of  a  Capuchin 

A  round  frame  in. 
Now  with  his  tender  fist  he  rubs  his  eye  : 

"  Plague  take  that  fly!" 


208  A    SONNET. 

Or  hovering  Bessy  claps  a  sudden  veto 

On  some  moschito 
While  he  lies  sleeping,  in  his  shaded  crib, 

Sans  stocking,  bib  ; 
His  toes  curled  up  so  sweet  that  I  could  eat  'em, 

How  could  I  beat  him  ? 
How  lay  a  finger  on  that  soft  brown  skin, 
With  many  a  blue  vein  interspersed  therein  ? 


A    SONNET. 

A    FIRST   AND    LAST   ATTEMPT   AT   THIS  SPECIES  OF   COMPOSITION. 

A  SONNET  ?     Well,  if  it's  within  my  ken, 
I'll  write  one  with  a  moral  !     When  a  boy, 
One  Christmas  day,  I  went  to  buy  a  toy, 
Or  rather,  "  we/'  I  and  my  brother  Ben  ; 
And,  as  it  chanced  that  day,  I  had  but  ten 
Cents  in  my  fist,  but  as  we  walked — "  Be  Goy 
Blamed  !  if  we  didn't  meet  one  Pat  McCoy, 
An  Irishman — one  of  my  father's  men, 
Who  four  more  gave,  which  made  fourteen  together. 
Just  then  I  spied,  in  most  unlucky  minute, 
A  pretty  pocket  wallet :  like  a  feather 
My  money  buys  it  !  Ben,  begins  to  grin  it : — 
"  You're  smart,"  says  he,  "  you've  got  a  heap  of  leather, 
But  where's  the  cents  you  ought  to  ha'  put  in  it  ?  " 


WIT  AND    HUMOK. 

TN  attempting  to  define  wit  and  humor,  it  is  necessary 
L  to  premise,  that  they  will  be  considered  as  active  and 
independent  faculties  of  the  mind  ;  and  not  as  abstract 
qualities, — such  as  may  be  comprehended  in  a  bon-mot  or 
an  epigram.  In  other  words,  the  endeavor  will  be  to  arrive 
at  the  intention  of  the  epigrammatist,  not  to  discuss  the 
merits  of  the  epigram  itself.  For  the  forms  of  wit  and 
humor  are  so  various,  it  will  scarcely  be  possible  to  form  a 
just  conclusion,  except  by  separating  the  conception  and 
intent,  from  the  expression  and  the  effect.  Swift,  it  is 
said,  is  a  witty  writer.  Why  ?  Because  he  wrote  witty 
poerns.  Why  are  the  poems  witty  ?  The  answer  is,  be 
cause  they  were  written  by  Swift.  Very  reasonable,  to  be 
sure  ;  but  the  object  of  this  essay  is  to  ascertain  if  there 
be  not  another  solution  to  the  last  question. 


210  WIT    AND    HUMOR. 

The  great  Swedish  philosopher,  Linngeus,  or  some  other 
philosopher  equally  great,  in  attempting  to  classify  the 
animal  kingdom,  found  it  rather  perplexing  to  mark  out 
the  boundaries  of  the  grander  divisions.  That,  once  accom 
plished,  it  was  an  easy  and  beautiful  task  to  subdivide  it 
into  genera,  species,  and  varieties.  But  animals  would  be 
alike  in  some  respects,  and  differ  in  others,  in  spite  of  sci 
ence.  Chickens  flew,  but  so  did  bats  and  beetles.  Chick 
ens  and  beetles  laid  eggs, — bats  would  not  ;  but  wingless 
terrapins  did.  Some  animals  had  warm  blood,  some  had 
cold,  and  yet,  in  other  respects,  were  alike.  Shad  had 
scales,  but  the  armadillo  wore  them  also.  Bears  were 
covered  with  hair,  and  so  were  caterpillars  and  tarantulas. 
Geese  had  quills,  penguins  had  none,  but  the  porcupine 
had  plenty.  Elephants  carried  a  flexible  appendage  at 
one  end,  and  monkeys  at  the  other.  The  giraffe  fancied 
he  could  get  along  best  by  having  his  two  longest  legs  in 
front,  but  the  kangaroo  preferred  having  them  abaft.  The 
female  otter,  living  partly  on  the  land,  and  partly  in  the 
water,  nourished  her  young  like  the  wife  of  the  Rev.  John 
Rogers  ;  but  the  pelican,  with  the  same  habits,  had  nothing 
to  put  into  the  mouths  of  young  pelicans  but  fish. 

To  find  one  property,  which  certain  animals  had.  and 
others  had  not,  was  the  question  ;  but  how  discover  it  in 


WIT    AND    HUMOR.  211 

the  apparent  chaos  of  tastes  ?  At  last  the  problem  was 
solved  :  —  Shad,  elephants,  bats,  armadillos,  kangaroos, 
liad  back-bones — beetles,  spiders,  and  terrapins  had  none. 
Their  relative  positions  were  at  once  defined.  "  The 
greater  class,"  said  Linnaeus  with  a  wave  of  his  hand, 
"shall  be  called  ' vertebrata,'  and,  thank  heaven,  I  am 
one  of  them." 

In  like  manner  this  attempt  shall  be,  to  express  the 
generic  definition  of  wit  :  and  in  like  manner,  the  generic 
definition  of  humor  ;  so  that,  however  variously  presented, 
wit  may  be  identified  by  some  property  common  to  all  its 
species,  and  humor  by  one  property  common  to  all  its 
varieties. 

It  may  be  as  well  to  observe  here,  in  order  to  forewarn 
the  reader,  that  although  the  subject  may  seem  suggestive 
of  mirth,  it  will  be  found  a  very  serious  one  before  he  gets 
through  with  it.  A  gentleman  who  sometimes  attempted 
essays,  said  he  never  felt  so  miserable  as  when  he  was 
writing  one  on  happiness  ;  and  therefore  it  is  best,  by 
a  timely  caution  to  suggest,  that  in  this  analysis  of  wit 
and  humor,  it  must  not  be  looked  upon  as  a  necessary 
consequence,  for  the  writer  to  give  any  proofs  of  possessing, 
either  faculty  himself. 

With  these  brief  remarks,  I  will  proceed  to  a  consider- 


212  WIT    AND    HUMOR. 

ation-  of  the  subject.  The  term  "  wit,"  in  its  eldest  signi 
fication,  implied  generally  "rationality"  and  so  we  still 
understand  it  in  its  derivations — "to  wit,"  (to  know,) 
"half-witted,"  "witless,"  "witling,"  etc.,  etc.  In  the 
time  of  Dryden  it  expressed  fancy,  genius,  aptitude.  Thus 
the  famous  couplet— 

"  Great  wits  to  madness  surely  are  allied, 
And  thin  partitions -do  their  bounds  divide," — 

is  almost  an  amplification  of  that  "'fine  frenzy"  Shake 
speare  has  delineated,  and  "  wit "  in  this  sense  is  merely  a 
synonyme  of  "  imagination."  Locke,  who  was  cotemporary 
with  Dryden,  defines  "  wit "  as  lying  most  in  the  assem 
blage  of  ideas,  and  putting  those  together  with  quickness 
and  variety,  wherein  can  be  found  any  resemblance  or  con- 
gruity,  thereby  to  make  up  pleasant  pictures  and  agreeable 
visions  in  the  fancy.  This  definition  of  wit  he  places  in 
opposition  to  judgment,  which  he  says  "  lies  quite  on  the 
other  side,"  in  separating  carefully  one  from  another  ideas 
wherein  can  be  found  the  least  difference,  thereby  to  avoid 
being  misled  by  similitude,  and  by  affinity  to  take  one 
thing  for  another.  Addison  quotes  this  passage  in  the 
Spectator,  and  says  :  "  This  is,  I  think,  the  best  and  most 
philosophical  account  that  I  ever  met  with  of  wit,  which 
generally,  though  not  always,  consists  in  such  a  resem- 


WIT    AND    HUMOR.  213 

blance  and  congruity  of  ideas  as  this  author  mentions.  I 
shall  only  add  to  it,  by  way  of  explanation,  that  every 
resemblance  of  ideas  is  not  what  we  call  wit,  unless  it  be 
such  an  one  that  gives  delight  and  surprise  to  the  reader. 
These  two  last  properties  seem  essential  to  wit,  more  par 
ticularly  the  last  of  them."  To  come  down  still  later, 
Dugald  Stewart  endorses  Locke,  with  this  addition, 
("  rather/'  as  he  says,-  "  by  way  of  explanation  than 
amendment,")  that  wit  implies  a  power  of  calling  up  at 
pleasure  the  ideas  which  it  combines  ;  and  Lord  Kames 
denominates  wit  a  quality  of  certain  thoughts  and  expres 
sions,  and  adds  :  "  The  term  is  never  applied  to  an  action 
or  passion,  and  as  little  to  an  external  object." 

From  the  preceding  illustrations,  we  learn  the  term 
"wit"  was  not  formerly  used  in  its  present  limited  sense  : 
in  fact,  Addison  gives  us  a  list  of  different  species  of  wit, 
such  as  "  metaphors,  similitudes,  allegories,  enigmas,  para 
bles,  fables,  dreams,  visions,  dramatic  writings,  burlesque, 
and  all  methods  of  illusion,"  from  which  we  may  gather,  in 
his  time  wit  was  an  expression  of  considerable  latitude, 
embracing  all  ideas  of  a  fanciful  or  whimsical  nature.  Dr. 
Johnson  describes  wit  "  as  a  kind  of  concordia  discours  ; 
a  combination  of  dissimilar  images,  or  discovery  of  occult 
resemblances  in  things  apparently  unlike  ; "  which  Leigh 


214  WIT    AND    HUMOR. 

Hunt,  in  his  essay  on  wit  and  humor,  amplifies  into  "  the 
arbitrary  juxtaposition  of  dissimilar  ideas,  for  some  lively 
purpose  of  assimilation,  or  contrast,  or  generally  of  both." 
Why  this  would  not  apply  as  well  to  humor  as  to  wit  is 
not  so  apparent.  It  is  scarcely  fair  to  suspect  Mr.  Hunt 
did  not  quite  understand  the  distinction  between  them 
himself. 

I  could,  in  addition  to  those  already  named,  quote 
many  other  authorities,  but  they  would  bring  us  no  nearer 
to  the  points  in  question.  The  gist  of  all  that  has  been 
said  concerning  the  subject-matter  is  contained  in  the  defi 
nitions  already  given.  I  must  refer  here,  however,  to  one 
book,  which  is  so  admirable  in  its  way,  so  full  of  the  witty 
and  humorous,  so  acute  in  detecting  the  errors  of  all  other 
writers  upon  the  subject,  and  so  far  from  being  right  in  its 
own  solution  of  the  question,  that  the  perusal  of  it  pro 
duces  the  very  effect  which  its  author  claims  to  be  the 
end  of  all. wit,  namely,  "surprise!"  The  "Lectures  on 
Moral  Philosophy,"  by  the  Reverend  Sydney  Smith,  as  an 
exemplar  of  wit,  has  no  superior  in  our  language  ;  but 
when  he  tells  us  that  "  whenever  there  is  a  superior  act  of 
intelligence  in  discovering  a  relation  between  ideas,  which 
relation  excites  surprise,  and  no  other  high  emotion,  the 
mind  will  have  a  feeling  of  wit,"  we  must  beg  leave  to 


WIT    AND    HUMOR.  215 

differ  from  the  conclusion  ;  for  wit  sometimes  excites  ad 
miration,  which  may  be  considered  a  high  emotion  ;  and 
we  have  known  instances  where  it  has  produced  a  feeling 
of  implacable  revenge.  In  the  example  which  he  gives 
immediately  after,  he  says  : 

"  Why  is  it  witty,  in  one  of  Addison's  plays,  when  the 
undertaker  reproves  one  of  his  mourners  for  laughing  at  a 
funeral,  and  says  to  him  :  '  You  rascal,  you  !  I  have 
been  raising  your  wages  for  these  two  years,  upon  condi 
tion  that  you  should  appear  more  sorrowful,  and  the  higher 
wages  you  receive,  the  happier  you  look  ! '  Here  is  a  rela 
tion  between  ideas,  the  discovery  of  which  implies  supe 
rior  intelligence,  and  excites  no  other  emotion  than  ( sur 
prise.'  " 

Now  the  incongruousness  of  ideas  here  is  calculated  to 
raise  an  emotion  of  mirth  as  well  as  surprise,  and  we  are 
pleased,  not  because  it  is  witty,  but  because  the  accidental 
ambiguity  of  the  words  turns  the  reproof  into  a  jest. 
True  wit  is  never  accidental,  but  always  intentional. 

Compare  the  above  with  the  following,  which  would  be 
humorous  if  it  were  not  very  witty  :  "A  gentleman  owned 
four  lots  adjoining  a  Jewish  burying-ground,  in  the  upper 
part  of  the  city.  The  owners  of  the  cemetery  wanted  to 
purchase  these  lots,  but  as  the  price  they  offered  was  no 


216  WIT    AND    HUMOR. 

equivalent  for  their  value,  the  gentleman  refused  to  accept 
it.  At  last  the  trustees  hit  upon  what  they  considered  a 

master-stroke  of  policy,  and  meeting  Mr.  V a  few 

days  afterward,  said  :  '  Ah,  Sir,  we  tink  you  will  not  get 
any  body  now  to  live  on  your  property  up  dere.  We  have 
buyed  lots  on  de  odder  side,  and  behint,  and  it's  Jews' 
burying-ground  all  around  it/  '  Very  well/  replied  Mr. 
V-  — ,  '  I  shall  begin  to  build  to-morrow/  '  Build  ! ' 
echoed  the  trustees,  taken  aback  by  the  cool  manner  in 
which  this  was  said,  cwhy,  now,'  with  a  cunning  smile. 
( what  can  you  put  up  dere,  mit  a  Jews'  burying-ground 

all  around  ?'     '  A  surgeon's  hall  ! '  replied  Mr.  V . 

f  Just  think  how  convenient  it  will  be  !  You  have  made 
my  property  the  most  desirable  in  the  neighborhood.— 

Good   morning/      The  reader  may  imagine  Mr.  V 

received  his  own  price  for  the  lots,  which  were  speedily 
converted  into  a  Golgotha,  and  the  principal  trustee  now 
lies  buried  in  the  midst  of  them,  with  a  white  marble 
monument  protruding  out  of  his  bosom,  large  enough  to 
make  a  resurrection-man  commit  suicide." 

In  his  definition  of  humor  the  Kev.  Sydney  Smith 
says  : 

"  So,  then,  this  turns  out  to  be  the  nature  of  humor  ; 
that  it  is  incongruity  which  creates  surprise,  and  only  sur- 


WIT    AND    HUMOR.  217 

prise.     Try  the  most  notorious  and  classical  instances   of 
humor  by  this  rule,  and  you  will  find  it  succeed/' 

If  this  be  the  nature  of  humor,  namely,  "  that  it  is  in 
congruity  which  creates  surprise,"  we  will  try  the  rule,  and 
see  how  it  agrees  with  the  assertion.  In  the  tragedy  of 
King  Lear,  when  the  poor  old  monarch  finds  Kent  in  the 
stocks  he  says : 

" Ha! 

Mak'st  thou  this  sport  thy  pastime  ? " 

And  this  exclamation  is  caused  by  a  feeling  of  incon 
gruity,  for  he  discovers  Kent  has  been  treated  in  a  manner 
directly  opposite  to  what  he  expected,  and  the  sudden  clash 
of  the  two  contending  ideas  produces  surprise.  By  the 
application  of  the  above  rule,  this  should  be  humorous,  but 
I  confess  it  is  difficult  to  believe  it. 

Let  us  take  another  example  :  Macbeth  is  assured,  in 
the  witches'  cavern,  that  "  none  of  woman  born  shall  harm 
Macbeth  !  "  and  again  : 

"  Macbeth  shall  never  vanquished  be,  until 
Great  Birnam  wood  to  high  Dunsinane  hill 
Shall  come  against  him." 

Yet  when  Birnam  wood  does  come  to  Dunsinane,  in  a 
most  accountable  manner ;  and  afterwards  he  hears  Mac- 


218  WIT    AND    HUMOR. 

duff  had  entered  the  world  by  the  Csesarean  operation,  he 
does  not  seem  particularly  struck  with  the  humor  of  the 
thing,  nor  is  he  giving  way  to  a  burst  of  hilarity  at  the  un 
expected  relation  of  ideas,  when  he  utters  : 

"  Accursed  be  the  tongue  that  tells  me  so, 
For  it  hath  cowed  my  better  part  of  man ; 
And  be  these  juggling  fiends  no  more  believed, 
That  palter  with  us  in  a  double  sense  ; 
That  keep  the  word  of  promise  to  our  ear. 
And  break  it  to  our  hope." 

The  truth  is,  surprise  is  sometimes  the  effect  of  wit 
or  humor,  and  nothing  more  ;  and  we  cannot  predicate  of 
wit  that  it  is  surprise,  any  more  than  we  can  predicate  of  a 
triangle  that  it  is  equilateral. 

Let  us  now  consider  the  second  part  of  our  subject. 
Like  wit,  the  meaning  of  the  term,  "Humor,"  has 
changed,  and  we  seek  in  vain  for  any  correspondence  be 
tween  its  present,  and  former  significance.  Thus  Ben  Jon- 
son's  "  Every  man  in  his  Humor,"  is  equivalent  to  every 
one  to  his  taste,  "  chacun  d  son  gout," — it  implied  whim 
sies,  fancies,  conceits  (such  as  we  find  in  Corporal  Nym), 
temper,  turn  of  mind,  petulance,  etc.,  etc.  By  Addison  it 
was  used  as  a  synonyme  of  wit,  but  rarely,  and  it  is  only 
within  a  few  years  that  the  word  humor  has  been  used  as  the 


WIT    AND    HUMOR.  219 

generic  term  of  a  peculiar  class  of  ideas.  I  have  already 
given  the  Keverend  Sydney  Smith's  definition,  and  shall 
add  here  that  of  Leigh  Hunt,  which  certainly  is  a  very  dif 
ferent  thing  from  wit  as  we  understand  it. 

"  Humor,  considered  as  the  object  treated  of  by  the  hu 
morous  writer,  and  not  as  the  power  of  treating  it,  derives 
its  name  from  the  prevailing  quality  of  moisture  in  the 
bodily  temperament ;  and  is  a  tendency  of  the  mind  to 
run  in  particular  directions  of  thought  or  feeling  more 
amusing  than  accountable,  at  least  in  the  opinion  of  so 
ciety." 

I  opine  that  nothing  short  of  a  patent  digester  can 
make  any  thing  of  this  definition.  With  all  deference  to 
the  author  of  "  Kimini,"  I  am  compelled  to  believe  he  has  no 
more  idea  of  humor,  than  a  Bush-boy  has  of  clairvoyance. 
Taking  out  "  the  quality  of  moisture  in  the  bodily  tempera 
ment,"  which  is  slightly  irrelevant,  and  straightening  the 
involution  of  the  sentence,  it  stands  thus  :  "  Humor,  con 
sidered  as  the  object  treated  of,  is  a  tendency  of  the  mind 
to  run  in  particular  directions  of  thought  or  feeling  more 
amusing  than  accountable."  If  this  be  not  the  very  idea  of 
humor  the  Philistines  had,  when  they  called  for  Samson 
to  make  them  sport,  then  I  am  much,  very  much  mistaken. 
For  when  we  cease  to  consider  humor  as  an  active  principle. 


220  WIT    AND    HUMOR. 

and  only  discover  it  in  the  weakness  of  one,  who  may  be 
making  that  sport  for  us,  which  is  death  to  him,  we  must 
reflect,  it  is  the  ludicrous  association  of  ideas  in  our  own 
minds  that  produces  the  effect.  Thus,  although  the  antics 
of  a  monkey,  contrasted  with  the  remarkable  gravity  of  his 
physiognomy,  may  make  us  laugh,  we  can  scarcely  accuse 
him  of  being  a  humorist  ;  but  if  a  man  have  a  monkey 
running  loose  in  his  mind,  and  imitate  him,  then  we  may 
safely  set  him  down  as  one. 

In  the  Westminster  Review  for  October,  1847,  there  is  a 
criticism  upon  this  very  essay  from  which  I  take  the  follow 
ing  :  "  Humor  is  felt  to  be  a  higher,  finer,  and  more  genial 
thing  than  wit,  or  the  mere  ludicrous  ;  but  the  exact  de 
finition  of  it  has  occasioned  some  difficulty.  It  is  the  com 
bination  of  the  laughable  with  an  element  of  love,  tender 
ness,  sympathy,  warm-heartedness,  or  affection.  Wit, 
sweetened  by  a  kind,  loving  expression,  becomes  humor. 
Men  who  have  little  love  to  their  fellows,  or  whose  lan 
guage  and  manner  are  destitute  of  affectionateness,  and  soft, 
tender  feeling,  cannot  be  humorists,  however  witty  they 
may  be.  There  is  no  humor  in  Butler,  Pope,  Swift,  Dry- 
den,  Ben  Jonson,  or  Voltaire." 

In  estimating  humor,  let  us  admit  this  passage,  with 
some  grains  of  allowance  ;  upon  the  whole  it  is  ingenious 


WIT    AND    HUMOK.  221 

and  elegant,  as  a  description  of  humor,  perhaps  the  best 
that  can  be  found. 

I  have  thus  shown  what  has  already  been  said  in  re 
gard  to  the  subject,  by  way  of  clearing  the  ground  for  the 
definitions  which  follow : 

Wit,  is  an  operation  of  the  mind  directing  the  action 
of  the  ludicrous,  for  the  attainment  of  some  specific  object. 

Humor,  is  an  operation  of  the  mind  directing  the  action 
of  the  ludicrous  to  the  production  of  mirth. 

And  herein  humor  differs  from  wit,  which  always 
has  an  ultimate  object  beyond  the  mere  mirth  it  creates. 
Thus,  wit  is  antagonistic — humor,  genial.  Wit  is  con 
centrated,  sharp,  rapier-like ;  humor,  prodigal,  diffuse ; 
in  fact,  the  very  wantonness  of  mirth.  Wit  converges 
to  a  focus,  like  a  lens.  Humor  distorts,  multiplies,  and 
grotesquely  colors  like  a  prism.  Wit  is  always  percep 
tive  ;  humor  may  be  conscious  or  unconscious  ;  a  man 
is  very  much  in  earnest  with  himself,  and  yet  we  see 
his  words  or  actions  in  a  humorous  light,  like  the  odd 
reflections  made  by  an  imperfect  mirror.  Such  men 
are  unconscious  humorists  ;  what  seems  ludicrous  to  us, 
is  very  sad  reality  to  them  ;  and  often,  when  we  get  a 
glimpse  of  their  inner  nature,  even  while  the  smile  is  yet 
upon  our  lips,  we  feel  a  touch  of  pity  as  deep  as  tears. 


222  WIT    AND   HUMOR. 

Mr.  Kichard  Swiveller,  wending  his  way  home  after  "  a 
night "  with  Mr.  Quilp  and  the  case-bottle,  may  be  taken 
as  a  fair  specimen  of  an  unconscious  humorist. 

"  Left  by  my  parents  at  an  early  age,"  said  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller,  bewailing  his  hard  lot,  "  cast  upon  the  world  in  my 
tenderest  period,  and  thrown  upon  the  mercies  of  a  delud 
ing  dwarf,  who  can  wonder  at  my  weakness  ! "  "  Here's 
a  miserable  orphan  for  you.  Here,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller 
raising  his  voice  to  a  high  pitch  and  looking  sleepily  round, 
"is  a  miserable  orphan." 

Now  an  actor  to  represent  this,  or  an  author  to  deline 
ate  it,  would  be  a  conscious  humorist. 

Humor  and  pathos  are  often  twin-born.  What  is 
natural,  homely,  child-like ;  little  episodes  of  smiles  and 
tears, 

"  Dreams  of  our  earliest,  purest,  happiest  years," — 

are   inextricably  blended    with  these    divine    emotions. 

I  cannot  forbear  copying  entire  those  beautiful   lines  by 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  "  The  Last  Leaf,"   so  finely  il 
lustrative   of  both. 

"  I  saw  him  omje  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door, 

And  again 
The  pavement  stones  resound 


WIT    AND    HUMOR.  223 

As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 
With  his  cane. 

"  They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning  knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  crier  on  his  round 
Through  the  town. 

"  But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  on  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan ; 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 
They  are  gone. 

"  The  mossy  marbles  rest 
On  the  lips  that  he  hasprest 

In  their  bloom, 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  Jiear 
Have  ~been  caned  for  many  a  year 
On  the  tomb. 


"  My  grandmamma  has  said, — 
Poor  old  lady  she  is  dead 

Long  ago, — 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow. 


224  WIT    AND    HUMOR. 

"  But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff; 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

"I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here ; 

But  his  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  his  breeches,  and  all  that, 
Are  so  queer ! 

"  And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree, 

In  the  spring ; 

Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough, 
Where  I  cling." 

Here  is  indeed  humor  and  pathos  blended.  But  there 
is  no  such  thing  as  pathetic  wit.  Perhaps  nothing  marks 
the  boundary  line  between  wit'  and  humor  more  accurately 
than  this. 

Let  me  add  another  distinction.  Satire,  whether  for 
good  or  evil,  is  a  tremendous  implement — a  cautery,  actual 
and  potential.  See  its  effect  in  Punch  (which  I  take  to  be 
the  most  influential  political  paper  in  the  world)  ;  what 


WIT    AND    HUMOR.  225 

refuge  is  there  for  the  offender,  when  Prentice  launches  his 
glittering  arrow  from  the  Louisville  Journal  ?  How  can 
Mr.  Deuceace  answer  the  charge  preferred  against  him  by 
Mr.  Chawles  Yellowplush  ?  What  now,  and  for  ever,  is 
the  world's  opinion  of  "  His  Grace,  the  Duke  of  Grafton/' 
after  the  letters  of  Junius  ?  But  satire  is  a  property  of 
wit — not  of  humor  ;  we  may  ridicule  a  man,  but  there  is 
no  such  word  as  "  ludicrize  "  in  the  language. 

In  support  of  the  first  postulate,  viz.,  that  wit  always 
has  some  object  beyond  the  mere  creation  of  mirth,  let  us 
select  Hudibras  as  an  example.  This  unrivalled  poem 
abounds  in  passages  of  exquisite  wit  and  humor.  The  de 
scription  of  the  knight  himself  is  perhaps  the  most  felicitous 
mingling  of  both  that  can  be  found  in  the  whole  range  of 
English  literature.  I  might  glean  from  it  a  golden  sheaf 
of  quotations,  simply  illustrative  of  the  humorous,  although 
Hudibras  is  generally  considered  "  pure  wit."  And  so  it 
is,  as  a  whole.  When  we  take  in  view  the  object  for 
which  it  was  written,  when  we  remember  its  intention,  and 
its  effect  upon  the  Puritans  of  those  days,  then  every  ab 
surdity  brightens  into  points  of  keenest  satire,  the  pages 
fairly  blaze  with .  wit,  and  its  burning  ridicule  is  almost 
appalling. 

Pope's   Dunciad,  Dryden's    MacFlecnoe,  and  Byron's 


226  WIT    AND    HUMOR. 

English  Bards  and  Scottish  Ee viewers,  are  the  only  com 
positions  in  our  language  that  deserve  to  he  classed  with 
Hudibras.  They  belong  to  the  heroic  school  of  wit ;  epics, 
compared  with  every  thing  else  of  a  similar  nature  ;  and 
as  holding  the  highest  rank,  we  can  safely  estimate  by  each 
and  every  one  of  them  the  value  of  the  above  proposition. 

As  in  the  physical  world  we  find  connecting  links  be 
tween  the  animal,  vegetable,  and  mineral  kingdoms,  so  in 
the  world  of  letters  we  find  compositions  which  combine 
wit,  fancy,  and  imagination.  For  example,  in  the  follow 
ing  epigram : 

"  Bright  as  the  Sun,  and,  as  the  Morning,  fair ; — 
Such  Cloe  is — but  common  as  the  Air ! " 

The  direct  compliment  in  the  first  line,  so  strikingly 
reversed  by  the  satire  of  the  second,  would  be  ludicrous  but 
for  the  fanciful  elegance  of  the  whole. 

In  the  definition  of  wit,  the  ludicrous  is  assumed  to 
be  a  necessary  element.  I  take  this  word  for  want  of  one 
more  expressive  in  our  language.  I  use  it  to  represent  the 
"essence  of  mirth  ;"  as  a  principle,  larger  and  more  com 
prehensive  than  "  ridicule."  This  principle  I  hold  to  be 
latent  in  all  kinds  of  wit.  Whether  it  come  in  the  shape 
of  compliment  or  satire,  somebody  feels  the  divine  emotion 
of  mirth.  Whether  in  the  stiletto  innuendo,  or  the  sharp, 


WIT    AND    HUMOR.  227 

small-sword  repartee  ;  whether  it  lie,  like  salt,  on  the  tail 
of  an  epigram,  or  baffle  wisdom  in  the  intricate  pun,  some 
body  may  smart,  but  somebody  will  smile.  Even  in  the 
graceful  form  of  compliment,  wit  demands  this  tribute. 
At  the  time  Pope  borrowed  the  diamond  from  Chesterfield, 
and  wrote,  on  a  wine-glass, 

"  Accept  a  miracle  instead  of  wit ; 
See  two  dull  lines  by  Stanhope's  pencil  writ  ;"— 

imagine  the  faces  around  that  table.  When  the  "  Kape 
of  the  .Lock"  was  written,  imagine  its  effect  in  the  fashion 
able  circles  of  that  age.  When  Henry  of  Navarre  presented 
one  of  his  Generals  to  some  foreign  Ambassadors,  and  said, 
"  Gentlemen,  this  is  the  Marechal  de  Biron,  whom  I  present 
equally  to  my  friends  and  enemies/'  imagine  the  secret 
emotion  that  every  Frenchman  felt  in  that  courtly  circle. 
And  when  the  Spanish  Minister  was  shocked  at  the  famili 
arity  of. certain  officers,  who  were  pressing  around  that 
chivalric  King,  although  the  reply  may  remind  us  of  Ivry 
and  the  white  plume  ;  yet  that  gallant  speech — "  You  see 
nothing  here  ;  you  should  see  how  close  they  press  upon  me 
in  the  day  of  battle," — must  have  awakened  in  those  offi 
cers  a  sensation,  better  expressed  in  their  faces,  than  in  the 
plastic  countenance  of  the  Spaniard. 

Let  me  select  another  specimen — the  generous  example 


228  WIT    AND    HUMOR. 

of  Lord  Dorset,  who,  when  several  celebrated  men  were 
debating  about  harmony  of  numbers,  beauties  of  invention, 
etc.,  proposed  to  make  a  trial  of  skill,  of  which  Dry  den 
was  to  be  the  judge.  His  Lordship's  composition  obtained 
the  preference.  It  was  as  follows  : 

"  I  promise  to  pay  JOHN  DRYDEN,  Esq.,  or  order,  on  demand,  the  sum  of  five  hundred 
pounds.  DORSET." 

There  is  a  kind  of  legal  wit,  too,  in  Blackstone,  deserv 
ing  of  notice,  such  as  his  definition  of  special  bailiffs,  who, 
he  says,  "  are  usually  bound  in  a  bond  for  the  due  execu 
tion  of  their  office,  and  thence  are  called  bound  bailiffs: 
which  the  common  people  have  corrupted  into  a  much  more 
homely  appellation."  I  admire  this  pleasant  evasion  of  an 
unsavory  phrase. 

The  laconic  note  of  Dorset  is  in  happy  opposition  to 
one  written  by  Frederic  the  Great.  A  Jew  banker,  who, 
fearful  of  subsidies  and  loans,  sent  a  letter,  petitioning  the 
King,  "  to  allow  him  to  travel  for  his  health,"  received  in 


*&> 
answer : 


"Dear  Ephraim,  nothing  but  death  shall  part  us. 

FREDERIC.'' 


While  we  cannot  fail  to  perceive,  in  all  the  above  ex 
amples,  that  element  which  we  call  the  ludicrous,  or  mirth- 
moving  power,  yet  we  find  in  each  and  every  one  a  pur- 


WIT    AND    HUMOR.  229 

pose  ;  the  arrow  is  not  shot  into  the  air  ;  it  is  aimed  at 
the  blank.  We  recognize  it  in  compliment,  we  feel  it  in 
innuendo,  we  detect  it  in  irony,  it  stings  in  the  epigram, 
and  sparkles  in  repartee,  and. still  we  apprehend  it  as  wit  ; 
Wit  !  the  younger  and  more  polished  brother  of  that, 
which  has  but  one  name — humor — good  humor. 

Whoever  is  familiar  with  the  writings  of  Jean  Paul 
Kichter,  will  recognize,  in  the  following,  a  page  from  an 
admirable  book,  "Flower,  Fruit,  and  Thorn-Pieces."  It 
is  an  example  of  that  kind  of  humor  which  is  the  divine 
philosophy  of  a  sensitive  heart.  Germans  are  the  most 
analytical  of  modern  writers.  Let  us  illustrate  this  sub 
ject  by  a  quotation  from  one  of  the  best  : 

"  Siebenkas  was  all  day  long  a  harlequin.  She  (his 
wife)  often  said  to  him,  '  The  people  will  think  you  are 
not  in  your  right  senses  ;.'  to  which  he  would  answer, e  And 
am  I  ? '  He  disguised  his  beautiful  heart  beneath  the 
grotesque  comic  mask,  and  concealed  his  height  by  the 
trodden-down  sock  ;  turning  the  short  game  of  his  life  into 
a  farce  and  comic  epic  poem.  He  was  fond  of  grotesque 
cornic  actions  from  higher  motives  than  mere  variety.  'In 
the  first  place,  he  delighted  in  the  sense  of  freedom  expe 
rienced  by  a  soul  unshackled  by  the  trammels  of  circum 
stance  ;  and  secondly,  he  enjoyed  the  satirical  conscious- 


^230  WIT    AND    HUMOR. 

ness  of  caricaturing  rather  than  imitating  the  follies  of 
humanity.  While  acting  he  had  a  twofold  consciousness  : 
that  of  the  comic  actor  and  of  the  spectator.  A  humorist 
in  action  is  but  a  satirical  improvisator e.  Every  male 
reader  understands  this  ;  but  no  female  reader. 

I  have  often  wished  to  give  a  woman,  who  beheld  the 
white  sunbeam  of  wisdom  decomposed,  checkered,  and 
colored  from  behind  the  prism  of  humor,  a  well-ground 
glass  which  would  burn  this  variegated  row  of  colors  white 
again  ;  but  it  would  not  answer.  The  woman's  delicate 
sense  of  the  becoming  is  scratched  and  wounded,  so  to  say, 
by  every  thing  angular  and  unpolished.  These  souls  bound 
up  to  the  pole  of  conventional  propriety,  cannot  compre 
hend  a  soul  which  opposes  itself  to  these  relations  ;  and 
therefore  in  the  hereditary  realms  of  women — the  courts, 
and  in  their  kingdom  of  shadows — France,  there  are  seldom 
any  humorists  to  be  found,  either  of  the  pen  or  in  real  life." 

But  of  all  creations  of  humor,  what  is  there  to  com 
pare  with  the  hero  of  Cervantes?  Don  Quixote  may 
move  us  to  mirth  by  his  guileless  simplicity,  but  his  nature 
is  noble,  beyond  any  artifice  of  mere  wit.  For  the  spring 
of  all  his  actions  is  what  we  most  admire  in  humanity — 
valor,  love  of  justice,  patience  and  fortitude  ;  even  his  want 
of  prudence  is  almost  a  virtue.  Strange  that  -it  should 


WIT    AND    HUMOR.  231 

excite  our  laughter  to  behold  the  aberrations  of  an  enthu 
siast,  who  believed  himself  to  be  "the  defender  of  the 
innocent,  the  protector  of  helpless  damsels,  the  shield  of  the 
defenceless,  and  the  avenger  of  the  oppressed/' 

"  What  story  is  so  pleasing  and  so  sad." 

Is  there  not  something  in  this  madness  nearer  heaven 
than  much  of  worldly  wisdom  ? 

But  in  our  admiration  of  the  relics  of  chivalric  life, 
who  can  forget  thee,  thou  modestest  of  men,  "  My  Uncle 
Toby  ?  "  What  is  more  admirable  than  thy  goodness  of 
heart,  thy  tenderness,  thy  patience  of  injuries,  thy  peace 
ful,  placid  nature,  "  no  jarring  element  in  itf  which  was 
mixed  up  so  kindly  within  thee  ;  thou  hadst  scarcely  a 
heart  to  retaliate  upon  a  fly  ! " 

"  I'll  not  hurt  thee,"  says  my  Uncle  Toby,  rising  from 
his  chair,  and  going  across  the  room  with  the  fly  in  his 
hand  ;•  "  I'll  not  hurt  a  hair  of  thy  head.  Go,"  says  he, 
lifting  up  the  sash  and  opening  his  hand  as  he  spoke,  to 
let  it  escape  ;  "go,  poor  devil  !  get  thee  gone,  why  should 
I  hurt  thee  ?  this  world  is  surely  wide  enough  to  hold  both 
thee  and  me." 

In  direct  opposition  to  this  stands  the  character  of 
burly  Falstaif.  No  one  would  lay  a  straw  in  the  way  of 


232  WIT    AND    HUMOR. 

Uncle  Toby,  but  how  we  relish  uthe  buck-basket/'  the 
"  cudgel  of  Ford,"  and  the  castigation  at  "  Gadshill ; " 
nay,  if  we  bear  in  mind  how  exquisitely  selfish  Falstaif  is, 
we  can  even  admire  the  reply  of  King  Harry,  beginning- 
wit  h  : 

"  I  know  thee  not,  old  man  :  fall  to  thy  prayers. 
How  ill  white  hairs  become  a  fool  and  jester." 

Such  is  the  nature  of  wit.  We  love  Charles  Lamb, 
Goldsmith,  Irving,  Fielding,  Dickens,  our  young,  admirable 
humorist,  Shelton,  and  glorious  Dan  Chaucer ;  but  we 
have  no  such  feeling  toward  Pope,  Swift,  Dryden,  Chester 
field,  or. the  author  of  "Vanity  Fair."* 

Dante  at  tunes  is  witty,  and  his  wit  is  tremendous  ! 
In  his  journey  through  hell  he  meets  the  shade  of  a  friar, 
who  tells  him,  that  the  soul  of  a  living  man,  one  "  Branca 
Doria,  who  murdered  his  father-in-law,  Zanche,"  is  there. 

"  Nay,"  replies  Dante,  "  you  do  not  tell  the  truth. 
Branca  Doria  is  on  earth  ;  eats,  walks  and  sleeps  like  any 
other  man." 

"  Nevertheless,"  returns  the  friar,  "  his  soul  has  been 

*  Personally,  Mr.  Thackeray  is  one  of  the  most  genial  and  amiable  of 
men.  But  however  brilliant  his  wit,  it  has  no  warm,  sunny  side.  He 
succeeds  in  creating  very  detestable  people  in  his  novels,  for  whom  one 
does  not  feel  the  least  sympathy.  The  satire,  however,  is  perfect. 


WIT    AND    HUMOR.  233 

many  years  here  in  hell,  and  in  place  of  it,  a  devil  inhabits 
his  body  above."* 

Coleridge's  remarks,  written  on  the  cover  of  Charles 
Lamb's  copy  ^  of  Donne's  Satires,  which  I  give  briefly, 
are  severely  witty  :  "  The  irregular  measure  of  this  verse 
is  only  convertible  into  harmony  by  the  feeling  of  the  reader. 
I  would  like  to  hear  a  Scotchman  read  Donne.*  If  he  read 
it  as  it  should  be  read,  I  would  think,  either  that  he  was 
not  in  reality  a  Scotchman,  or  that  his  soul  had  been  geo 
graphically  slandered  by  his  body." 

We  must  not  consider,  however,  this  caustic  quality  as 
inseparable  from  wit.  True,  in  all  the  forms  of  innuendo, 
satire,  irony,  and  epigram,  we  may  discover  it ;  but  hap 
pily,  there  is  a  species  of  wit  as  innocent  as  it  is  delightful. 
Perhaps  there  is  nothing  more  agreeable  than  being  in  com 
pany  with  a  person  who  possesses  this  faculty,  with  suffi 
cient  amiability  and  good  sense  to  keep  it  in  subjection  ; 
the  perfection  of  strength  is  in  the  reserve  of  power  ; 
and  he  is  an  exquisite  swordsman  who  can  disarm,  with 
out  wounding,  his  adversary. 

If,  in  this  essay  I  have  touched  but  lightly  upon  the 
innocency  of  wit,  which  certainly  is  its  most  charming  at- 

*  "This,"  says  Leigh  Hunt,     "is  the  most  tremendous  lampoon,  as  far 
as  I  am  aware,  in  the  whole  circle  of  literature,"     I  believe  it. 


234  WIT    AND    HUMOR. 

tribute,  it  is  because  instances  are  rare,  and  we  should  be 
chary  in  commending  too  much  a  faculty,  which  sometimes 
has  the  power  to  turn  even 

u a  mother's  pains  and  benefits, 

To  laughter  and  contempt." 

Thus  while  we  enjoy 

" converse  calm,  with  wit  shafts  sprinkled  round, 

Like  beams  from  gems,  too  light  and  fine  to  wound," 

we  must  make  a  reservation  in  favor  of  a  more  genial  qual 
ity  ;  not  that  we  love  wit  less,  but  that  we  love  humor 
more  :  for  humor  is  of  nature,  and  wit  is  of  artifice. 

The  limits  of  an  essay  will  not  permit  any  further  con 
sideration  of  this  fruitful  subject,  else  I  might  name  one 
whose  wit  is  such  that  "  'tis  a  common  opinion  that  all 
men  love  him." 

"  That  last  half  stanza — it  has  dashed 

From  my  warm  lip  the  sparkling  cup ; 

The  light  that  o'er  my  eyebeam  flashed, 
The  power  that  bore  my  spirit  up 

Above  this  bank-note  world — is  gone," 

I  trust  is  not  prophetic  ;  for  in  the -whole  wide  world  lives 


WIT    AND    HUMOR.  235 

not  one  possessed  of  such  powers  of  wit,  humor  and  fancy, 
as  he  ;  nor  is  there  any  one  to  whom  his  own  lines  will  ap 
ply  better  : 

"  ISTone  knew  thee,  but  to  love  thee, 
None  named  thee,  but  to  praise." 


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Cozzens,  F.S. 
Prismatics. 


PS 1449 

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